Cutting the Knot
by Sarah1281
Summary: It's Christmas Eve, 1979, and Ford is convinced his life is going great. He's doing important work with the two people he trusts most in the world in a place that finally accepts him. Then Stan comes crashing back into his life, from the future no less, with cryptic warnings of a dark future. By the end of this Christmas Carol he'll certainly have some life choices to reevaluate.
1. Chapter 1

Ford was fairly certain that Christmas songs were never meant to be played on a banjo.

Not that he was any kind of expert on Christmas songs but it just sounded a little off compared to what he'd heard on the radio.

He glanced up at Fiddleford who looked back at him innocently but then the music seemed to get louder.

He tried to focus for a little longer then finally set his calculations aside in defeat.

"Are you happy?" he asked.

Fiddleford paused in his playing. "Of course I'm happy. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't. And it _is_ Christmas Eve. Plus my son is coming in a few hours. That seems like a recipe for happiness right there. Why do you ask?"

Ford gave him a look. "You know what I mean."

"Well I thought I did but evidently not," Fiddleford said.

"You're distracting me from my work," Ford complained.

" _You're_ distracting _me_ from my playing," Fiddleford countered.

Ford fought a smile. "It's just that one of these things is more important that the other."

"Sure," Fiddleford agreed too easily. "Two things rarely hold the same degree of importance. But tell me, on Christmas Eve which do you think matters more?"

"On Christmas Eve and on all days, the answer is the work that will change the universe," Ford said.

Fiddleford rolled his eyes tolerantly. "You are terrible at Christmas."

"I'm Jewish."

"You say that whenever the subject of Christmas comes up."

Ford laughed. "It's not like that ever changes. I don't celebrate Christmas and, while I don't care what you do with it, it's a bit much to expect me to muster up any enthusiasm over it."

"You made me celebrate Bill Day," Fiddleford said accusingly.

Ford held up a hand. "First of all, I didn't _make_ you do anything. Secondly, Bill Day was a lot of fun."

"Correction: _you_ had a lot of fun. I was being the supportive boyfriend who had never quite realized how many triangles there were in our lives."

"Not enough," Ford said. Fiddleford may complain and mistrust Bill but it wasn't as though he knew him anywhere near as well as Ford did. Fiddleford trusted _him_ and that was all that mattered. If anything, it might be more meaningful that Fiddleford was willing to give him his way on this when he didn't feel it himself than if they were fellow Bill enthusiasts. "I'm willing to humor you about Christmas."

"Humored. About Christmas. Oh joy," Fiddleford said dryly. "And not very much."

"Would now be a bad time to remind you I'm Jewish?"

"It's not as though I didn't offer like four times to try and find some Hanukkah stuff for you," Fiddleford reminded him. "I mean, I don't think Gravity Falls would have anything but I've headed to the city a couple times recently and I could have gotten you something. We could have gone together."

Ford smiled at him. "I know and that's sweet. I just don't really see the point. I'm not much into Hanukkah these days."

"Not into Christmas, not into Hanukkah…I'm starting to suspect that it's not so much you being Jewish but you just not being all that into holidays," Fiddleford said.

Ford shrugged. "That might be true. But even if I were, I rather doubt Christmas and I would ever be happening."

"Why not, though?" Fiddleford asked.

Ford raised an eyebrow. "Do I really need to remind you, for the third time in five minutes, that I'm-"

Fiddleford shook his head. "No, not that part. Although from the way my son goes about it you'd think Christmas was a completely secular holiday. I just don't understand why you don't like holidays. Nobody doesn't like holidays."

"I don't like holidays," Ford pointed out. "Well, most holidays."

Fiddleford rolled his eyes. "Well, yes, but I mean aside from you. It's a little unusual."

Ford held up a hand. "I'm a little unusual."

Fiddleford laughed. "Please do tell me, Stanford, what six fingers have to do with holidays. Were you oppressed by a clear five-finger bias in celebrations as a kid? Did your hand turkey run out of space or something?"

"It's just a…never mind. Maybe something traumatic happened to me on a holiday. Did you ever consider that?"

"That would make sense if it were just one holiday," Fiddleford said. "But would, say, a traumatic experience on Hanukkah stop you from being able to enjoy any holiday?"

Ford crossed his arms. "Don't tell me how to deal with my hypothetical trauma."

" _Is_ it hypothetical?" Fiddleford asked.

Ford nodded. "But you didn't know that."

"Then what is it?" Fiddleford asked.

Ford shrugged. "I don't know. My family was never really the warm fuzzy big holiday type. I don't have a real problem with it. I just don't really _get_ it. It's not important to me."

Fiddleford sighed heavily.

"What?"

"It's just a bit of a letdown, is all."

Ford let out a startled laugh. "What, you _want_ me to have suffered?"

"Of course not," Fiddleford said. "But I was expecting more of a story than 'me, I'm just not into it.'"

"I could come up with a better one," Ford said. "In fact, I really did try to. But you were all 'did that actually happen.' And the answer is no, no it did not."

"You could have lied to me," Fiddleford said.

"I was under the impression that the best relationships are open and honest," Ford said. "I do not want to sacrifice what we have for the sake of entertaining you."

"Well if you want to phrase it in the most dramatic way humanely possible," Fiddleford said, shaking his head. "Though, while we're on the subject, how long did it take you to tell me about Bill again?"

"You know _now_."

"Not actually an answer to my question. Wasn't it something like eight months?"

"I told you the minute that you asked," Ford protested.

Fiddleford gave him an unimpressed look. "I'd been asking you for months before you actually told me."

"No, you asked me things like 'what's wrong' and 'what's going on with you' and I don't believe my answers to those questions were inaccurate," Ford said. "When you finally asked me where I was getting my ideas and who I was working with I told you about Bill. And he wasn't happy about that, by the way."

"I remember it being a little harder than that to get those answers out of you," Fiddleford said. "And I'll just bet he wasn't."

"Well, it's not hard to understand," Ford said apologetically. "He chooses one human mind to inspire and that person is me and not you. It's really nothing personal. Although the fact that you clearly hate him can't help."

"I would have just thought a muse would be above caring about such things, is all."

"Bill is very sensitive," Ford said.

"I don't want to talk about Bill. It's Christmas Eve."

"Well you did bring him up," Ford said. "But fine. You were disappointed that I have such a mundane reason not to be into holidays."

"It's hard to change someone's mind if it's just that it doesn't interest them," Fiddleford explained.

"And 'my parents died in a car crash on Thanksgiving' would be easier?" Ford asked skeptically.

"It would certainly give me a starting place," Fiddleford said. "And the therapist I'd have dragged you to would have done all the work. And you, I guess. The point was I wouldn't really have to do anything."

"Well now I'm just starting to doubt your commitment to getting me to enjoy holidays," Ford said. "Why is it so important to you, anyway?"

Fiddleford hesitated. "I wouldn't say that it's _important_ to me. It's just that I grew up in a house where holidays were a very big deal. The entire month of December was Christmas. October was Halloween. We started looking forward to the Fourth of July the minute school let out. It was such a happy time and I know you don't always have a lot of happy memories and I guess I just want to share the joy."

Ford leaned back in his chair and smiled. "I understand that, I do. I can't say I think you'll be too successful but it's a lovely thought."

Fiddleford stood up. "Well, fortunately for you I have no intention of giving up anytime soon."

"Fortunately for me, he says," Ford murmured.

"Right now I have to go, though. I need to pick up Tate so it's not too late when we get him back. I'm warning you now, my son cannot be persuaded to wait past six to open presents and he's usually up by four-thirty. I can usually keep him occupied with a gingerbread house but don't expect to sleep in tomorrow."

"I didn't get anyone Christmas presents," Ford said. "I doubt I'll be getting any. Why do I even need to be present for this?"

Fiddleford just gave him a look and headed towards the front door.

"You may think that's a satisfactory answer but I am here to inform you that it is not," Ford called after him.

"Go to bed early," Fiddleford advised. "It's Christmas Eve. And since you're not even looking forward to tomorrow, I doubt you'll have any difficulty."

Once Fiddleford was gone, the house strangely felt colder. It also felt like he was actually able to get some work done so he spent the next few hours doing just that.

He stopped when he heard the phone ringing. He didn't get a great deal of calls and it might be Fiddleford checking in so he answered on the fourth ring.

"Hello? This is Stanford Pines."

There was no voice on the other end of the line. He heard breathing for a few seconds and then abruptly the dial tone returned.

Annoyed, Ford looked at the clock and decided that he might as well have a late dinner. He never had been able to understand why or how that prank caller or stalker or whatever it was had followed him from college up to Gravity Falls. Fiddleford sometimes got the caller, too, but only when he lived with Ford so there was a good chance he wasn't the real target. The not-voice hadn't ever done anything but call every few weeks so he supposed it was probably harmless but he was quickly losing patience with it. What was the point of calling and not saying anything? What did it want?

After he cleaned up, he grabbed the book he was reading and headed back to his chair only to find that someone else was already sitting in it.

The figure looked a little bleary around the edges and Ford automatically adjusted his glasses.

"Dad?" he asked uncertainly. It sort of looked like his father but like he was a lot older. Then again, he hadn't seen his father since he had graduated from college three and a half years ago. That was a long time, wasn't it? Who knew what had happened?

The figure looked affronted. "Dad? Sweet Moses, Stanford, I do not look that much like Dad!"

That left an even more bewildering possibility. If he hadn't spent so much time in Gravity Falls and with Bill and so much time before that preparing for his life here he wouldn't have even dared to ask his next question. "Stanley?"

The figure waved half-heartedly. "Heya, Pointdexter."

It couldn't be Stanley. How could it possibly be Stanley? He hadn't seen his brother in eight years, it was true. He didn't even technically know if he was alive or dead though he always firmly told himself that Stanley was fine because if anything was truly bad he'd at least call or something. Ford couldn't promise anything about how he might react to Stan forcing himself back into Ford's life to demand help after ruining his dreams but he'd at least expect Stan to try. But Ford was twenty-five. Stanley was twenty-five. There was hard living but there was no way that the man sitting before him was anything less than sixty. A very, very badly aged sixty.

"You're not my brother."

The figure rolled his eyes. "I've heard that one before."

"I don't understand. My brother's twenty-five not…however old you are."

The figure rolled his eyes. "Come on, Sixer. Don't tell me that, all this time in this weird town, you can't think of any way to explain this."

"Maybe...maybe accelerated aging?" Ford theorized. There was something familiar about this man.

"Well…yes and no," the figure said. "I mean, I did not age well by any standard but I didn't age quite that poorly that I'm supposed to be twenty-five."

"I don't understand."

The figure rolled his eyes again. "Oh come on, Ford. I thought time travel was supposed to be one of your big nerdy staples! Didn't you see Terminator?"

"I've never heard of a Terminator," Ford said, frowning. "Are you trying to say that-"

"How can you have not seen Terminator?" the figure interrupted. "No, wait, maybe that came out after…"

"So you're claiming to be my brother from the future," Ford said loudly. "Who has somehow found a way to time travel?"

It sounded unlikely in the extreme.

Stan, or at least the figure that looked like Stan, nodded. "What, you don't believe me?"

Ford merely crossed his arms.

"It's not like I had to go and invent a way to do it," Stan said, pulling out a tape measurer. "Some genius or other did that. I just have to know how to work it."

"Alright," Ford said. "Say that I do believe all of this. Why would you come back now and talk to me? Do you want me to reach out to your past self or something?"

"No, I…Wait, no, actually that would be great. You should absolutely reach out to past me. My life is frankly terrible and I never meant to break your project and if you actually knew anything about what happened to me after I was kicked out instead of just hoping for the best you'd insist I move in here with you."

Ford told himself that Stan wasn't right. That Stan just wasn't doing too good or he was lonely and he wanted to mooch off of Ford. Their parents certainly hadn't understood that an academic grant was only to be used for living expenses and studies and had to be carefully documented. They hadn't understood that it wasn't that he was selfishly hoarding his college money but that he could get in a lot of trouble if he gave any to them.

He tried to tell himself that if things were all that dire that Stan would have called and that if he had a little hardship, maybe a dead end job or a crappy apartment, then it was alright. It was no worse than anyone had expected and it wasn't his fault and he had been coasting for far too long.

He didn't know if he believed himself on either of those accounts.

"You said no at first," Ford reminded him.

Stan just sighed and shook his head. "It's like watching a train wreck. Not that I expect my own younger self would be any more reasonable. You just haven't seen the kinds of things that I've seen, the kinds of things that make you realize that all of this is stupid and we need to get past it. Not that even knowing all of that is a guarantee when people refuse to offer you any sort of acknowledgement and just yell at you for devoting your life to save them…"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ford said again.

"Never mind," Stan said.

"But-"

"It doesn't matter," Stan interrupted. "Or at least it won't if you listen to me. You are on the verge of fucking everything up for everyone."

Ford stared at him. "What."

"And, to be fair, other people play their parts. McGucket. That stupid triangle. Mostly him, to be honest. Me. Although I'm a little farther from fucking anything up for anyone but myself since I'm probably still down in Columbia right now. Or was that before? I can't even remember. Mabel and Dipper did nothing wrong and if anyone says otherwise then I am prepared to fight them."

"You're going to need to explain this," Ford told him.

Stan laughed. "Yeah, I could but let's be honest. You wouldn't believe me."

"You don't know that," Ford argued.

Stan gave him a curiously soft look. "Come on, Stanford. I think we both know that it's true."

Ford felt a strange feeling settle into his gut but, for the life of him, he couldn't define it. "Then why even come? If you're so convinced no good could come of it you're not even willing to try then what is even the point? Masochism?"

Stan laughed. "Probably a little bit of masochism, yeah."

"Tell me."

"What would you say if I were to tell you that Bill Cipher is quite possibly the most evil creature that's ever existed?" Stan asked casually.

"How do you know about-" Ford cut himself off. "Right. The future. I'd say you're wrong. Bill is a true gentleman."

Stan looked disgusted. "Yeah, yeah. One of the friendliest and most trustworthy individuals you've ever met. You honestly can't trust him more. Not evil in any way."

"I…yes, actually," Ford said. "I take it you don't agree?"

"Not evil in any way, quite possibly the most evil being around…yeah, I'd say that we've got a definite difference of opinion going on."

"Well I trust him more than I trust you."

Stan paused, let the words hit him. "You are going to feel so stupid for saying that one day. But, fantastic brother that I am, I forgive you. No need to give yourself a hard time. Bill's very good at what he does and he's been targeting you for a long time. And we don't have to let it all end in weirdness. Not this time."

"In…weirdness?"

"I know, I know, I'm not making any sense," Stan said apologetically. "Frankly I don't know exactly how to explain all of it. Not that you'd even believe me and thirty odd years of history takes some doing. Let me just say this. Bill can't be trusted. You don't believe me now but you will. Hopefully before it's too late. Things…right now things are actually pretty okay. Better than I ever thought they'd be even."

"Then why come here?" Ford asked, knowing there was little point in defending Bill. Stan wouldn't understand. He'd understand even less than Fiddleford would.

"Because we wasted so much time," Stan said bluntly. "I've been through hell, you know. I can never quite decide if it was worse the decade I was homeless and in and out of jail in multiple countries or the thirty years that I spent…well. I usually end up thinking it's the thirty years. And my thirty years was a hell of a lot better than yours. Things might be good _now_ but I was given a chance to try and make it better and what else could I do but take it?"

"And…what? You're going to make it better by refusing to tell me anything?" Ford asked skeptically.

"I think things would improve by at least 75 percent if you just stopped trusting Bill and scrapped the portal."

"I can't get rid of my portal!" Ford objected. It was a good sign that Stan had heard of that, wasn't it? It meant that it worked. "It's my life's work!"

"And it's so not even worth it," Stan said. "You really should get more in the habit of asking people why they want you to shut it down instead of just refusing outright."

"But there is no possible explanation that anyone could give me that would convince me."

"What if I were to tell you it's going to bring about the end of the world?" Stan asked rhetorically.

"Something _believable_ ," Ford said. "Besides, I think I know why. You just can't stand to see me become a success while you're apparently homeless."

"Seriously, call me. You know that about me now; you have no excuse," Stan said. "And no, that's not it but I am not having this conversation with you. Not again."

"I've never had this conversation with you," Ford said. "I can't help it if you have."

"No but you can correct the imbalance by picking up the damn phone and calling your brother," Stan hinted. "I'm going to get nowhere trying to talk you into this. I know that. But you're going to be visited by three other people who will show you some things that will hopefully get through to you."

"Oh am I?" Ford asked. "No consideration for if I want to or not?"

"You do," Stan said bluntly. "You just don't know it."

Ford felt a familiar spark of anger flare to life inside of him. "Oh, do I? You don't get to decide what I want for me, Stanley."

"It's not a matter of me deciding," Stan said. "I know this doesn't make sense but, trust me, if you had all the information then you'd want to know."

"I thought we established that I couldn't trust you."

Stan swallowed. "Well, you certainly said that, at any rate. Maybe you're right that you can't trust me. But one thing you can trust, for what it's worth, is that while I may fuck things up I always do mean well. I never wanted to hurt you."

"Isn't that almost worse?" Ford asked. "At least if it were on purpose you could stop."

Stan looked down. "It doesn't matter. This is all going to change. Or it will if you let it. I can't stop this, Stanford. Only you can."

Ford felt a flare of irritation. "Of course you would put this on me."

"I'm sorry," Stan said and he did look really sorry. "But that's just how it is. I'm miles away and don't know about any of this. I'm not the one who can change anything. Not until it's too late."

"What are you even talking about?"

"All of our lives are going to be ruined if you stay this course," Stan said seriously. "And it's not your fault, not really. You were tricked and how could you have possibly known? And how could I have known? How could McGucket have?"

"You mentioned him before," Ford said. "What happens to Fiddleford?"

Stan looked like he was debating telling him.

"Stanley!"

"He goes mad," Stan said simply.

Ford felt himself grow cold. "No, he wouldn't…how would he even…no. You're lying."

"You asked. But you can stop it."

Ford let out a somewhat hysteric laugh. "I'm supposed to somehow save his sanity? There was nothing wrong with it when I spoke with him today."

"That's because there's still time," Stan said. "Look, tonight is going to suck for you. There's no way to sugarcoat that. But this is important and this is the only way I can think of to try and fix all of this."

"I don't want this! I don't want any of your future visions and cryptic warnings and telling me not to trust my closest friend!"

"I know," Stan said, bowing his head. "And I wish there was another way but…don't be too hard on the kids, okay? They just want to help you."

"The kids? What kids?" Ford demanded. "What are you getting out of any of this? How do I know this is anything more than you just trying to trick me into letting you back into my life because your life isn't going anywhere?"

Stan forced a smile. Ford had never seen one look so fake before. "You don't. But even after all this is over, if you don't want to see me then that's okay. It will be pretty terrible for me but as long as you make sure to act on the warnings then that's good enough. I understand, even if younger me doesn't."

"You're not a martyr, Stanley."

"I'm not trying to be one," Stan said. "I just know some things and it's like you're mad at me if I want you to call me and mad at me if I say it's okay for you not to. What do you want from me?"

"Nothing."

Stan nodded. "Yeah, that I can believe. I'm going to go now. I can't think of anything I forgot to mention and I don't think we're going to get anywhere else with this."

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't that. "You're just going to go?"

He felt a strange sense of unease at that.

This time Stan's smile was a touch sadder and far more genuine. "You never can make up your mind on these things, can you, Sixer?"

"I-" He couldn't think of anything else to say.

Stan pulled out his tape measurer again. "Try and take your mind off of this. Get some sleep. I think they're coming at one in the morning or something. I mean, I told them that was a lousy time but they wanted to be all poetic and what have you."

"Stan…"

"I know," Stan said which was quite an accomplishment as Ford himself didn't know. "And it really is okay." He pressed a few buttons on his tape measurer and then he was gone.

Honestly, Ford didn't know how he was supposed to get any sleep after that. He was far too jittery, far too unsure of everything. Had that even been real? His senses weren't exactly foolproof these days, what with Bill's powers and the mysteries of Gravity Falls. And even if something had technically happened, what ever made him think it was really his brother form the future? And even if it was, that didn't mean anything he said could be trusted.

One thing he knew was that he wasn't feeling up to facing Fiddleford just then (going mad? He couldn't possibly. Fiddleford was the sanest person Ford knew and if he fell what would become of any of them?) and even less up to facing Tate. Tate was a quiet enough kid but he was still a child and those were exhausting at the best of times.

He headed back down to his lab and tried to ignore all the Christmas cheer Fiddleford had put everywhere.

He didn't even realize that he had fallen asleep until Bill showed up right next to his head. "What are you working on?"

Despite all the worry that he had only just managed to push to the side when trying to calculate complex equations, Ford could feel himself smiling. Fiddleford had only met Bill in passing and forced him to sit down and watch the Exorcist after the first time that had happened. And the second and the third and the point was that Ford had seen that movie so often he had started to think of it as his and Fiddleford's film despite the fact it really was about Ford and Bill. Stan had likely never met Bill or at least hadn't really gotten to know him.

None of them understood. And he didn't blame them, he really didn't. Taken from the outside it might seem kind of strange.

And if Bill were anyone else it might be a little horrifying.

But he wasn't.

"What am I ever working on?" Ford asked rhetorically, leaning back to allow Bill to see his work.

"Do you need any help?" Bill asked.

Ford shook his head. "Thanks for the offer but I think I've got this one." He didn't want Bill to think that he couldn't handle some things by himself or waste his talent on things that, while challenging, Ford could literally feel his brain solving.

"You're always so resourceful, Sixer," Bill said admiringly.

Stanley had called him Sixer. It had been his nickname first, hadn't it? How strange for two people who had so little in common to share that.

"I just don't want to give you a reason to feel like you've made a mistake."

Bill zoomed right in front of his eyes, forcing him to scoot his chair back a little. "Oh, Stanford, I don't think I'll ever think that."

"I don't mean to doubt you," Ford said. "It's just…can you understand why I still have uncertainties?"

"Of course I can. I understand what a big thing this is for humans," Bill assured him. "One mind a century if you'll remember. That's what, thirty minds or so since I've started doing this? But something tells me you're going to go farther than any of them ever did."

Ford felt like he wanted Bill to keep talking and yet to completely change the subject, a pretty common feeling when Bill started to go off like this. "Tell me about them?"

"Them?" Bill repeated curiously. "Oh, you mean the others like you."

"Were they like me?" Ford asked. "They must have been brilliant if you chose them out of all of the people in the world to inspire."

"They were," Bill said. "But I'll tell you a little secret, Sixer."

With Ford being the only human Bill reliably spoke to, every word – no matter how mundane – felt like a secret. Eagerly, he leaned forward.

"It takes more than brilliance. Brilliance is commonplace. Oh, it's not so widespread as stupidity or even normal smartness. Genius is such a small sample of the population but with something like six billion people on this planet right now how many of them do you suppose are geniuses? Even when the population was smaller, how many geniuses do you think there have been since I first decided to come to your people?"

"There must have been a lot," Ford said. "Maybe not billions but more than thirty."

" _Way_ more than thirty," Bill confirmed. "So why them? Why you?"

Ford nodded, trying not to look too eager.

"Brilliance alone isn't enough. I've encountered some of the most brilliant minds I've ever seen content to use their skills to coast in life or to use their power to hurt others."

Ford felt an inexplicable anger rising up in him. Those people were likely dead. A century was a long time for a human. It was just that hearing about coasting had always reminded him of Stanley and how he had enabled his brother to just coast along in school and made him dependent on him until he couldn't understand how to function on his own and had destroyed Ford's dreams. And he had too much experience with the Crampelters of the world to ever be able to stomach the thought of intentional cruelty, even at such a local level. Who knew what damage a genius could inflict on the world?

Bill must.

"Part of it's just a feeling," Bill said. "I can look at someone who on paper looks perfect and just not feel it. Or I could look at someone who might not measure up to my usual standards but there's just something about them and I have to take a chance on them. I've never been disappointed with my selections."

"Was I one of those?" Ford couldn't help but asked. He hoped he wasn't, even if he knew that if that were the case he was at least living up to Bill's faith in him.

Bill laughed. "Oh, no, trust me, you were _exactly_ what I was looking for."

"And that is?"

"There needs to be ambition," Bill said. "What's the point of inspiring someone if they're not going to do anything with it? They need to be open to the idea. Why go to a man who is going to insist he's possessed and go join a monastery? And they need to have some sort of impossible idea I can help with."

Ford frowned. "I certainly had ambition, yes, but an idea? I was completely stuck when I summoned you."

And, despite what Bill was saying to try and encourage him, Ford did have to wonder if there was some sort of connection between Ford being the one to bring him into this world and being chosen.

"Oh, I know that look," Bill said, reaching out and playfully throbbing Ford's nose. "You're wondering if I only chose you out of gratitude for bringing me back to this world."

"Well, I…" There was no point in lying to Bill. He didn't even want to try. "Yes. Yes I am."

"What do you think would have happened if someone else had summoned me?" Bill asked rhetorically. "Say that Gleeful guy. You think I'd have wasted my efforts on the likes of him?"

Bud Gleeful had never struck Ford as being all that impressive.

Ford smiled, reassured. "Maybe not."

"You summoning me certainly brought you to my attention first but I did look all over the world before I was certain that you were the one," Bill said. "There were a handful of other promising candidates but you were already here in Gravity Falls. You say you didn't have any ideas and, no, you didn't think of the portal but you thought of trying to trace the weirdness. You come to a place like this and develop a goal such as that and expect me to just sit by? No, no, no. Trust me, Sixer, I'm having more fun with you here than I have in quite a few centuries."

How was he supposed to respond to that? The whole thing made him feel so warm it was almost like he was burning. How could he possibly live up to that? It wasn't the same for Bill, he was sure. Ford may have him up on a bit of a pedestal, he was self-aware enough to know that, but how could Bill help but live up to expectations? He was some sort of god or something.

"It's just good to hear sometimes," Ford said. "Fiddleford has all these doubts and nobody else even knows what I'm doing. Everyone expected such great things from me and I just feel like I've yet to deliver."

"It may be taking you a little longer than you expected to make your mark but you're hardly flying to the moon or discovering tiny building blocks," Bill said. "You are going to change the world, Stanford Pines. You are going to bring worlds together. They'll see that soon enough and then all doubts will be silenced."

How could anyone listen to this and think that Bill wanted anything more than to encourage and inspire him? That he wanted anything less than the best for everybody? He really didn't know.

Bill drew back, surprised. "There's someone in the lab with you. I don't know them."

"What?" Ford asked, surprised. Who could possibly get into the…maybe it was…

His eyes flew open and he saw a little girl wearing a green sweater that had the words "Happy Hanukkah" on it and Santa Claus's giant head.

"Hi," she said brightly, holding out her hand to shake. "My name is Mabel!"

Almost without meaning to, Ford reached out and took it.


	2. Chapter 2

"Who are you?" Ford asked her.

"I'm Mabel," Mabel said again.

"Well, yes, you did say that," Ford agreed.

"I know," she said. "But you asked me again and it's only polite to repeat yourself if other people don't hear you."

"I did hear you," Ford said.

She tiled her head curiously. "Then why did you ask me again? Were you hoping I was going to give a different answer? Oh! Oh! Are you going to ask me a third time and try and get the real answer like in one of those spy movies?"

"Is Mabel not your real name?" Ford asked.

"I think that's the first time you asked a different question rather than being the third time you asked the first one," Mabel informed him. "I don't know if you have to ask them in a row or if you can put other questions in there, though. My brother would probably know. Or at least he'd be willing to look it up."

"No, what I meant was, you said your name was Mabel. Mabel what? And why have you come here?"

"My name is Mabel Pines," Mabel said proudly.

Ford started. "Pines?"

"Yep."

"As in-"

"Uh-huh."

"How are we related?" Ford asked. He didn't think such a bright and cheerful child could possibly come from him or from any child of his. "Are you Stanley's daughter or granddaughter?"

"No, he's my great-uncle. My Grunkle! Just like you, Grunkle Ford."

That would make Shermie the grandfather. The very idea was absurd. His son was so young.

"Please don't call me that," Ford requested.

"Grunkle, Ford, or just anything that refers to the fact you're my great-uncle?"

"The latter," Ford said. "I am not nearly old enough for that. Your grandfather isn't nearly old enough for that!"

"I can try," Mabel said dubiously. "But since you are my Great Uncle Ford, I may forget."

"Just…do the best you can," Ford said. She looked so young and innocent. But she had found her way into his lab and was claiming a relationship with him and this was right on the heels of a possible visit from an older version of Stanley. But nothing was what it seemed in Gravity Falls. He had to keep that in mind.

"I think you asked why I was here," Mabel said. "And even if you didn't, I kind of have to tell you anyway or we can't get started. Well, maybe we could but that would just be mean, you know?"

Ford wasn't sure about mean but he did certainly want to know so he nodded.

"I don't know how much Grunkle Stan told you," she began. "It's okay if I call him Grunkle because I'm not talking about the him that's your age but the one who loves me and Dipper and loves being a Grunkle."

"He said something about how he and I were going to fuck everything up," Ford said bluntly.

Mabel's eyes widened in horror and she put her hands over her ears. "How could you _say_ that?"

"Say what?" Ford asked blankly. "Fuck?"

She glared at him. "You did it _again_. You don't spend a lot of time with children, do you?"

"Just Tate," Ford said. "Why?"

"You can't just swear in front of a little kid," Mabel said.

"You can't?" Ford asked. He shrugged. "Very well, I'll try not to. I really was just saying what he said, though."

"Grunkle Stan only swears when we're not around," Mabel explained. "And I know he must swear a lot because he uses fake swears all the time. Some of them are really silly." She giggled.

"Is what Stan said accurate?" Ford asked. "He didn't really give me any details."

Mabel hesitated. "I don't want to make you feel bad and say yes. And a lot of it wasn't your fault and wasn't Grunkle Stan's fault! Sometimes people just get upset and bad things happen and someone bad was trying to hurt you."

"But basically yes."

She nodded. "Basically."

"And you're here to fix that?"

She shook her head. "Oh, no. You can't change the past."

Ford's jaw dropped at the sheer audacity of that lie.

She laughed nervously. "Ah, well, I can see how you might feel that way. But technically, I'm not changing the past."

"So you're saying that in your future you came back and had this conversation with me?" Ford asked rhetorically. "And things still ended up all fu-all _messed_ up? Kind of makes you wonder what the point of even coming at all is. Unless it was to preserve the timeline if you want to be a stickler about not changing the past at all which would lead to an endless loops of a monument of a failed attempt to fix things but I'm not even sure what that would…" He trailed off as he noticed her staring at him.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I, uh, or something like that."

To his surprise, she smiled gently at him. "It's okay, Gru-It's okay. Dipper says all this nerdy stuff I don't understand all the time. I haven't always been the nicest about it but I'm trying. It's actually kind of cool that you guys know this stuff. Just because it's not the kind of stuff I'd want to spend my time on doesn't mean it's not still cool."

Ford found himself smiling back. "Well that is good to hear."

"I guess I kind of think of it as me not changing the past because all I'm doing is showing you some things about your own past. I'm not going back and, say, stopping Grunkle Stan from getting kicked out. Though if I were going to change the past that's the very first thing I'd do," Mabel said seriously.

Ford bit his tongue, fighting the urge to tell her exactly why Stan had been thrown out and how Stan hadn't even bothered to call him, not once, not in all this time. He couldn't get his way so he just walked away from a lifetime of togetherness. And maybe some of that space had been badly needed but Stan ruined him and then just left. She may have already known and, if she didn't, it wasn't his place to tell her. What did it matter to her?

"From my perspective the past would be changing but from yours you're only changing your future," Mabel said. "I wouldn't change the past. Everyone says bad things happen when you do that. Except this one time when Dipper kept going back in time to try and win a prize at a carnival for his crush and not injure her because this other guy used her injury as a chance to ask her out. That worked out okay. Well, at least for us. We kind of created an anomaly or something going back in time so much. And then like a week later Dipper woke me up in the middle of the night to ask me why he hadn't just not thrown the ball in the first place and I was like 'I don't know, Dipper, why' and then he just rolled his eyes and went back to sleep. But the point is that that time guy got in a lot of trouble and he went to time prison and we had to compete in Globnar and I think that's really how he got possessed by Bill."

There was one thing she said, in that whole nonsensical rant, that caught his attention. "Bill? Bill Cipher?"

It seemed she met a future recipient of Bill's wisdom. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Mabel made a face. "Yes."

Well if she was talking to Stan and she hadn't been the beneficiary of Bill's kindness then of course she'd take that attitude about it. Sometimes it seemed that Ford was literally the only one who could see the true Bill and not be distracted by petty jealousies. But Mabel's failing here was no worse than Fiddleford's was.

"I'll leave that to…well, that's not exactly a part of your past and we promised to do it this way," Mabel said. "I wouldn't know what to say anyway. But I do know that there's this time agency that goes around fixing changes that you make to the past so I guess if they fix it you can't really change the past. Or maybe they just do that if you change too much, like when I taught those pioneers about light-up shoes. I think they're still credited with inventing the high five but I don't know if they were before or not. But let's not overthink this, okay?"

"I'm not trying to overthink it, I'm just trying to understand this at all," Ford said. "How are you proposing to show me my past? Are you purporting to have magical powers or something?"

Mabel laughed. "Nah, I don't need magic. I've got nerd stuff."

She held out that same tape measurer that Stan had had. "Here, grab my hand and we can get going."

He really shouldn't. This was Gravity Falls and she probably had no idea what she was messing with. And even though she seemed like a good kid, this was Gravity Falls and she could be literally anything.

But what kind of researcher of the paranormal could he call himself if he wouldn't reach out and seize one of the most interesting and strange occurrences that had ever happened to him?

He touched her hand and she pressed some buttons and they were gone.

He was on the beach. Of course he was. Stan was there. They looked like they were around ten. He was attempting to build a sand castle and Stan was poking a little mound of sand with a stick.

She misinterpreted the look he gave her. "Don't worry. I have us on 'camouflage' and I am way better at this than Blendin ever was."

"I'm not going to go crawling back to my brother," he said firmly.

"I didn't say you had to," Mabel said evenly. "I didn't say anything about that at all."

"You brought me here, to him. Why do that unless you wanted us to make up? And I know that you love him and he, at least in the future, wants a reconciliation."

"He _always_ wanted a reconciliation," Mabel corrected. "Even before you fell apart."

"That's not my fault," Ford said. "He betrayed me and ruined my life."

"You seem to be doing fine," Mabel said. "I mean, you're a few years away from complete and utter disaster but it's not like you knew that before we showed up."

"So, what? I'm only allowed to be angry if I have to live under a bridge?" Ford demanded. "That doesn't seem very fair."

"You're allowed to be angry," Mabel said. "But isn't ten years long enough to be mad at someone? You know that it was an accident-"

"Actually, I don't, and neither do you," Ford said.

She looked confused. "But Grunkle Stan said-"

Ford fought the urge to roll his eyes, if only because she was very young and that seemed wrong somehow. "He said it, I'm sure. After all this time he may even believe it. But I wasn't there. I don't know what happened. All I know is that he didn't want me to go there, he broke the machine, and then the first thing he said to me was how I could now go with him on his stupid treasure hunting."

Mabel gave a commiserating nod. "Grunkle Stan often says the exact wrong thing. But you should know him better than that."

"I thought I did," Ford said. "And then look what happened?"

"But-"

"I thought you weren't trying to talk me into that?" Ford interrupted.

"Well, I wasn't," Mabel said. "But how long do you want to hold a grudge for? Another thirty years? Do you still want to be fighting about a stu-about a school until you're sixty?"

"It's not about the school," Ford said. "Not really. Though I'll admit that every time I hit a roadblock I wouldn't have had to deal with at West Coast Tech I remembered what had happened."

"Then what is it about?" Mabel sounded like she almost didn't want to know.

"I just…don't want him in my life anymore," Ford said simply. "And we're both adults. Family or not, I don't have to have him in my life."

Mabel's eyes filled with tears.

"I…what's wrong?" Ford asked, looking around wildly for some idea of what to do.

"I just…that's the saddest thing I've ever heard in my life."

Ford mustered up a rueful smile. "You must lead a pretty charmed life then."

Mabel shook her head. "Not really. Lots of bad things have happened lately. And that's still the saddest of all of them, even sadder than what happened that one day with the…well. Sadder even than that."

"Well I'm sorry to upset you then," Ford said. "But I can't change how I feel."

"I don't know about that," Mabel said. "But I guess you'd need a reason to try."

"Which you're here to give me."

Mabel shook her head. "I told you before, it wasn't about that. Though, really, if you want to forgive Grunkle Stan then that would be amazing."

Ford ignored that. "Why am I here then? What will showing me the past do to change the path I'm taking in life? If Bill's not even showing up here I don't see how you can possibly hope to try and use this to turn me against him."

"Just watch," Mabel said, gesturing to the kids.

"I want Christmas," little Stan said.

Little Stanford laughed. "You want Christmas?"

Stan puffed out his cheeks. "Yeah! Why's that making you laugh?"

"It's just…not very specific," Stanford said. "How can you want a holiday? It already exists and everything."

"Yeah, I know that," Stan said, flopping down suddenly in the sand and sending it flying everywhere.

"Stan!"

"Sorry," Stan said, closing his eyes. "Christmas might as well not even exist for all the good I get out of it."

"Why are we even talking about this in July?" Stanford wondered.

"I saw a sign that said Christmas in July," Stan offered. "It made me think about it."

Stanford rolled his eyes. "This is just blatant commercialism. How cynical do you have to get to try and cram two Christmases into a year just so people go out and buy more?"

"I don't know," Stan said, "but I like Christmas and I like July so I think this is a great idea."

Stanford laughed. "You would. But what's so great about Christmas anyway? We don't believe in Jesus' divinity."

"I'll take your word for it," Stan said. "I don't care about any of that stuff."

"Then you don't care about Christmas."

"I care about everything related to Christmas!" Stan insisted.

"Except, apparently, the reason for the holiday," Stanford said.

"I think I remember you saying something about spring or something once," Stan said. "About how Christmas was wrong?"

Stanford nodded. "Yes, that was when you were upset there wasn't a white Christmas."

Stan sighed. "Yeah, before Dad came in and wanted to know why we were talking about Christmas and we had to change the subject."

"Well it's well-known that Christmas being towards the end of December was because early Christians were trying to coopt pagan holidays," Stanford said. "In all likelihood the actual date of Jesus' birth was in spring though, of course, no one knows for sure."

"So very well-known," Stan deadpanned.

Stanford made a face. "Don't make fun of me when I'm helping you!"

Stan sat up and looked earnestly at him. "I'm not making fun of you! I think you're more arguing with me than helping but I'm not making fun of you. I just…Never mind. The point is that I want Christmas."

"That still doesn't make any sense," Stanford said. "You want…what?"

"I want presents," Stan said seriously.

"We get presents on Hanukkah. We get eight days worth of presents," Stanford said.

"They're not very good presents," Stan complained.

The look on Stanford's face said that he couldn't argue with him there. "And you think that that would change if we had Christmas instead? Knowing Dad he'd likely just get us one gift then and probably not a better one than the eight we already get."

Stan sighed. "It's just one more thing for us not to fit into. Everyone gets all excited for Christmas break and we have to go to school through Hanukkah and last year Crampelter tried to steal my 'weird top.'"

"Yeah," Stanford said, sighing. "But it's not like they need a reason. And even if we celebrated Christmas like all of them it wouldn't mean they'd leave us alone. They'd just start talking about what a freak I am again." He looked down.

"Hey, hey," Stan said. He flopped back onto the sand and forced his head into Ford's field of vision. "You're not a freak, okay?"

Stanford looked up at the sky and didn't answer.

Stan promptly stood up and leaned over him. "You're not."

"You keep saying that," Stanford noted.

"It keeps being true," Stan said. "Not gonna lie, Sixer, I wish I could stop saying it but as long as you need me to then you know I'm going to even if I have to spend the rest of my life doing it."

"But you _don't_ have to keep doing it is the point," Stanford said. "I know I'm a freak. You don't need to lie to me."

"I am a terrible liar," Stan said. "You know that. I know that. Everyone knows that."

"And yet it doesn't seem to stop you," Stanford noted.

Stan shrugged. "Eh, sooner or later I'll get the hang of it. So tell me. Am I lying?"

Stanford turned and looked in another direction.

Stan moved into his line of vision there, too. "Am I?"

"Just because you're not lying doesn't mean you're right," Stanford muttered. "Just because you keep saying it doesn't mean it's true."

"And just because those buttholes keep saying it doesn't mean that it is!" Stan exclaimed. "I swear, if I could change just one thing about you it wouldn't be those six fingers, Ford. There's nothing wrong with them. I'd change how much you always believe the bullies."

"If I didn't have six fingers there wouldn't be any bullies," Stanford said wistfully. "Or at least it would be for something other than being a freak. I wouldn't mind being bullied for being smarter than them. Not really."

"I just don't understand how having six fingers makes you a freak," Stan said.

"You don't…how can you not?" Stanford demanded. Everyone else has five."

"And everyone else celebrates Christmas and isn't half as smart as you and apparently that doesn't make us freaks," Stan said.

Stanford sighed and pulled his knees up to his chest. "It's not the same thing."

"What's so great about five fingers anyway?" Stan demanded.

"It's the standard. The average. The non-freakish."

"Average just means the middle, right?" Stan asked rhetorically. "So some people have more and some people have less. Average doesn't mean the only one allowed or you're a freak!"

"We're not talking about math here, Stan," Stanford said tiredly.

"No, of course not. We're talking about fingers. Fingers are pretty great. Everyone wants them. And monkeys are pretty great because they've got thumbs like us and can do more stuff. So if fingers are so good then why wouldn't you want more?"

"If dessert is so good then why wouldn't you want to eat nothing but dessert for all of your meals?" Stanford countered. "If comic books are so great why wouldn't you want to do nothing but read them all day?"

"All I can tell you, Sixer, is that I would want to do both of those things all of the time," Stan said. "And it's not just me! What about Zerah Colburn?"

Stanford's eyes bulged. "How do _you_ know about Zerah Colburn?"

"He had six fingers, too, right? He was a child prodigy right? He could do all this fancy math stuff in his head."

Stanford's eyes softened. "Stanley…"

Stan shrugged awkwardly. "So I looked him up. I knew you couldn't be the only one with six fingers. And I've seen cats with them, too, and no one was ever mean to them! Maybe we should be cats. But that guy was a genius and he had six fingers and so are you. Who wouldn't want to be like a guy like that?"

"He died from tuberculosis at 34."

Stan shrugged again. "I think they have a pill for that."

"Shot, actually," Stanford corrected. He grinned. "But…you're right. Thanks, Stan."

Stan grinned proudly. "You'd better thank me. I was in the library, you know. For hours. On purpose!"

Ford was pulled from the scene by the sound of Mabel whistling. "Wow you say smart things!"

"I am a genius which is something you should be aware of if we're supposedly related," Ford said.

"There's nothing supposedly about it," Mabel said. "And I do know that, yeah, but there's a big difference between you being an adult and doing all this and you being fun-sized and using words I don't know."

Ford decided to just let that go. "What was the point of that? To remind me that my brother and I used to be close? I never forgot that. And it doesn't change what happened."

"No but the science fair doesn't change this, either," Mabel said. "And there's a difference between knowing something and seeing it again."

He knew that. He didn't want to think about why it had hurt to see the two of them so happy, so innocent, so ignorant. They weren't there to change the past. He hadn't been the one who broke them.

"It sounds like you and Grunkle Stan had this conversation a lot," Mabel offered after a moment.

Ford looked down at his too-large hand. "We did. More than I wanted to, really, but Stan never could stand to hear me call myself a freak."

"If my brother called himself a freak I'd sit on him until he stopped," Mabel told him.

Ford gave her a quizzical look. "And how would that help?"

"I don't know," she said. "But maybe by then I'd think of a better plan. I don't think you're a freak, you know."

Ford snorted. "Of course not if you've been talking to Stan."

But Mabel shook her head. "No, even before that. The first time we met, you knelt down and you shook my hand. I'll never forget that. It may not seem like a big thing to you but adults always talk down to kids without even meaning to. But you just got right down there with me and it made me feel important. You shook my hand and I told you that six fingers was a full finger friendlier than normal. You said 'I like this kid. She's weird.'"

What was he supposed to say to that? His tendency to get consumed in his work and the amount of contact he had with his family now meant he wasn't surprised that he had apparently never seen her until she was old enough to remember it. Or at least that if he had seen her as a baby it had been infrequent enough that there had been a time that they officially met when she was older.

Ford swallowed hard. "I won't deny that Stan and I had our good times. But it wasn't just that and I don't see the need to try and dig up what's better left buried. Why do I need to reestablish that connection?"

"Because you're _twins_ ," Mabel said as if that was the answer to everything.

"What does that even mean?" Ford asked, suddenly annoyed. "Twins?"

"I, uh, should think you'd know the answer to that one."

"We came into this world together. We grew up together. From the moment we existed it was always togetherness! And now we're apart. Cuteness factor aside, what does it even matter?"

Mabel gave him a deeply pitying look. "It's more than that. If you don't know it now, if maybe you never did, then I can't explain it to you."

"Of course not," Ford said bitterly. "You'd have to be a twin to get it."

Mabel sighed and reached out for him.

Ford looked around to see that they were now standing in his old bedroom. Stan's stuff was still around so it must have been before he had ruined everything. Good. He didn't particularly want to relive that heartbreak.

Young Stanford (not little, not anymore, but still looking so much younger than Ford felt even if he supposed he hadn't physically aged all that much) was sitting at his desk methodically writing. It was likely an essay for school or something.

Mabel frowned. "Is this right? I didn't want to come and watch you doing homework."

"Don't you know where you're aiming this thing?" Ford asked her.

She grinned brightly at him. "Nope!"

"Well let's just see what happens," Ford advised.

It was a few dull minutes before the door finally burst open and Stan came through.

"Hey, Pointdexter!"

Stanford continued writing.

"Pointdexter," Stan said again, louder. "Hey! Can you not hear me or something?"

Stanford sighed and put the pencil down. "I'm kind of in the middle of something."

"Eh, you're always in the middle of something," Stan said dismissively.

"And what does that tell you?" Stanford asked, reluctantly standing up and facing his brother.

"That you _seriously_ need a break," Stan said seriously.

"It means that I have no time for this," Stanford said.

"I don't get it," Stan said. "You've been working all week! How is it that we're in all the same classes and I don't spend half the time on this crap that you are?"

"Well, for one, you're barely passing any of your classes while I'm on track to be valedictorian," Stanford said. "For another, you usually cope off of me anyway."

"Well you _let_ me," Stan pointed out.

Stanford gave him a look. "That doesn't mean I like it! I just don't want you to fail."

"So, what, I'd fail if you weren't around for me to copy off of?" Stan asked, oddly defensive.

"Present evidence does suggest it," Stanford said mildly.

Stan didn't even flinch.

"Hey!" Mabel said, hitting him in the arm. "That was really mean!"

"It's true," Ford pointed out.

"I don't know if it is or isn't but just because something's true doesn't mean it's not mean!"

"And if it's true there's no point hiding from it," Ford said. "I'm sure Stan learned that soon enough."

Mabel hunched in on herself, looking sad. "Yeah…"

Ford felt like he should do…he didn't even know. Something. But he didn't know what. He awkwardly let the moment pass.

"Well, anyway, let's go do something!" Stan suggested.

Stanford gestured pointedly towards the essay.

Stan sighed. "Yeah, yeah, I know. You're busy."

"I wish I could just blow this off and go with you," Stanford told him. "I've been working on this for hours and my hand is cramping up. But English was never my best subject and I really need to give this one my all."

"You give all of them your all," Stan said. "Guess that's why you're the smartest guy in school."

Stanford held a hand up in front of him. "There are worse things to be."

"Ford…"

Stanford shook his head. "No, really. There are. It's fine."

"If you say so," Stan said uncertainly. "Look, I don't want to stop you from getting done what you need to do. I'd never want to do that. It's just that you've been cooped up here pretty much all semester."

"Well this is a difficult semester," Stanford said reasonably.

"Is it?" Stan asked. Of course he wouldn't know. Easy or difficult, it was all the same when he didn't do the work. "I'm just getting worried, you know? You're not eating enough and you're always still working when I go to sleep and already up when I wake up. That kind of thing can't be good for you."

"Maybe it's not good for me," Stanford conceded. "But it's what I need to do right now. Try to understand that."

Stan looked torn. "Yeah, alright. But at least come downstairs and get something to eat."

"But-"

"It'll take twenty minutes. Come on, Ford. You can leave your work that long and you'll probably do far better if you're not starving anyway."

Stanford looked wistfully at his work before nodding. "Okay, fine. Twenty minutes."

Mabel was bouncing up and down excitedly. "You two were so cute!"

"Were we?" He didn't think so.

"Grunkle Stan just loves you so much!"

"I know," Ford said. That was the problem, wasn't it? He loved him too much to let him go when he needed to or even to give him some goddamn space. But how to explain that to a child measuring the world in cuteness?

"You really shouldn't have worked so hard, though. Not if you weren't taking care of yourself," Mabel said reprovingly. "That's just not healthy."

"I've done worse," Ford said, unconcerned. High school had really been the start of his all night studying tendencies but really that was nothing compared to the work he had had to put in at Backupsmore to stick to his accelerated schedule.

"And…that's probably not good for you," Mabel said. "And it might explain a lot of things about the kinds of decisions you've made."

Ford narrowed his eyes. "Don't just be cryptic. Say what you mean and be done with it."

Mabel just bit her lip and reached out for him again.

This time, they were in the kitchen of his childhood home. This time it was him and his mother and his father.

This time his father had a newspaper in front of his face, only occasionally lowering it to shovel some food in his mouth, and his mother's knuckles were white as she clenched her silverware. Stanford wasn't eating at all but rather pushing food absentmindedly across his plate.

Silence was often a good thing, at least in his experience. It let him get more done. This wasn't.

"What's going on?" Mabel asked curiously. "Is that your father? Why is he wearing sunglasses indoors?"

"He always has," Ford replied, shrugging. "I never asked. I guess it's strange but so is my mother being a pathological liar."

"You…you've never seen his eyes?" Mabel asked, her own eyes widening. She unconsciously took a step back.

Ford frowned, thinking back. "I mean, I'm sure I must have. But I couldn't tell you what they looked like. Why? I mean, I know it's strange but you're literally time travelling with me right now."

Mabel shook her head. "It's not the strangeness. Trust me, I love the strangeness. It's the fact that _you can't see his eyes_."

"You said that," Ford told her. "What does that even mean?"

"It means he could be possessed," Mabel explained.

Ford couldn't help it. He laughed.

Mabel's face turned red. "Don't you get possessed on a regular basis?"

"I wouldn't call it 'possession'," he said.

"But it's not inaccurate," she said.

"I suppose my eyes do look different when Bill and I are sharing a body," he admitted. "But come now, surely you aren't suggesting my father has been possessed my whole life. Who would even do that and why? Why keep up the pretense of being my father? Surely you can't suspect everyone whose eyes you can't see."

"I can, though," Mabel said. "And I do. And that has served me well ever since…" She coughed. "Well. Just something to keep in mind."

"I haven't even spoken to my father in years," Ford said. "This can't possibly matter."

Mabel looked alarmed. "What? You haven't? Why not?"

Ford shifted uncomfortably, trying to decide how much to tell her. With that time machine she could go poking around in all sorts of things he didn't want to deal with. Best to just be straightforward and not have to endure any more of this.

"It was difficult for me after my father threw Stanley out," he began.

"Difficult for _you_?"

He glared at her.

"Sorry," she said half-heartedly.

"Whatever Stanley went through doesn't take away from my own experience," Ford said. "It was hard. There were reminders of him everywhere and everyone had questions. People who never spoke to me in my life were suddenly all over me trying to find out what had happened. And I was at a loss for where I was going to go to college. Finally landing on Backupsmore was not my proudest moment. And it was _hard_ but I made it through. It was hard but I moved out and started working towards the life I wanted."

"And how does all that add up to not talking to your family?" Mabel asked as if the very idea was absurd. Well, at twelve Ford supposed he'd have found the idea just as crazy.

"I went back once. Just once. Not for Christmas, of course."

Mabel nodded. "Of course."

"For Thanksgiving." He gestured towards the figures awkwardly sitting around the table.

"Shermie wasn't speak to Dad after what happened with Stanley so he didn't bother coming up. It was just so cold and so…so unbearable. Mom kept crying and talking about Stanley and even when she didn't you still knew she was thinking about him. And Dad kept asking about my college money. They couldn't pay for my education, of course, and I ended up at Backupsmore instead of a more prestigious college because Backupsmore was the only one willing to give me a free ride. I mean, Stan cost me West Coast Tech but there are a lot of schools between that and Backupsmore," he said. "Dad didn't understand. Mom didn't, either, but she had bigger things on her mind."

Mabel was on the verge of tears.

"What?"

"Nothing," she said, sniffing. "This is just the saddest thing I've ever heard in my whole life!"

"Really," Ford said, unimpressed. "I thought me not wanting to reconnect with Stanley was."

"It is!" she practically wailed. "But this is pretty much the same thing! It's this whole situation!"

Ford waited, looking away politely, until she calmed down.

"So," she said at last, her voice a little wobbly, "what do you mean that your dad didn't understand?"

"I had a scholarship," Ford said. "Most of the money didn't even go directly to me but to the school for tuition. Then there was lodgings and a meal plan and books. I had a little left over for living expenses but it all had to be accounted for. My grant was even worse. I haven't _seen_ him but he's certainly called to complain. Apparently I'm 'selfishly hoarding my college money' just because he doesn't understand you have to account for every penny with grants! It's not just free money. It is money earmarked for a very specific purpose and maybe if they lived with me it could help them out with groceries or rent or something but I can't just give them money. And then when I chose to study anomalies instead of something more profitable…Well the cracks started a long time ago. I got literally nothing out of the trip back home. I found myself wishing that _Stan_ were there and I didn't want to see him, especially not then. So I left and I didn't go back."

"But won't you regret it?" Mabel asked softly. "I mean, I get that it's hard and that your family disappointed you. I don't know how your father could be so horrible as to kick his own son out. But the rest of your family! One day you may turn around and find that thirty years has passed and that it's too late and you'll wish that you took this time."

"Thirty years is a long time," he told her. "That's plenty of chances. Am I to live every day as though it's my last chance?"

"I have heard that that is an excellent way to live," Mabel said.

"Well it sounds exhausting and somewhat self-destructive," Ford said. "I call every now and again. It's more than they get from Stan but I can't blame him there."

"No," Mabel echoed. "I can't either. I just…I don't understand."

"I take it your parents are more…" Ford trailed off, unsure of what to say.

But Mabel nodded anyway. "They are."

It made sense. Of course Shermie's son wouldn't be like that, not after the way Shermie had reacted to finding out about Stan's fate two weeks after the fact.

He cleared his throat. "Well. I'm glad of that, at least."

Mabel smiled sadly at him. "I'm sorry."

"There's no need-" Ford started to say. He reached out his hand for her.

Backupsmore. The library. It was before he'd gotten his coat – he really did love that coat – but other than that he looked the same.

He was sitting at a table with four books piled up to his left and a notebook and fifth book spread out in front of him.

He was so focused on his work that he didn't even hear the man coming up to him.

"Don't take this the wrong way but I think I hate you."

Stanford started. "I-I what?"

The man pulled out the chair in front of him. "May I?"

"Oh, um, of course."

The man sat down. "I didn't mean that literally, the I hate you thing."

"That, uh, that explains the 'don't take this the wrong way'," Stanford said.

Fiddleford, because of course it was Fiddleford, grinned cheerfully at him and held out a hand. "Fiddleford McGucket."

Stanford hesitated. Of course he hesitated. People didn't always notice, when they weren't paying attention or his hands were out of sight, that he had six fingers. He could always tell when they did see it. Always. Even the ones who took it well still reacted and he still hated it. But what could he do? Just leave him sitting there with his hand sticking out?

Stanford forced a smile and took Fiddleford's hand. "Stanford Pines."

"It's nice to meet you," Fiddleford told him, his eyes not changing.

Stanford held onto his hand for a few seconds longer, waiting for the extra finger to register.

Eventually, Fiddleford pulled his own hand away. Still nothing. "You're probably wondering why I opened with 'I hate you.'"

Stanford nodded. He place his hands flat on the table, in easy view. "I am."

"There's really two answers to that question," Fiddleford said. "There's the what did I mean when I said that answer and the why did I phrase it the way I did."

"I'm more interested in the second," Stanford said, crossing his arms.

Fiddleford grinned. "Well that's just because I wanted to be dramatic. I've been in this situation far too many times for me to want to just come right out with it."

"Have you?" Stanford asked. "What situation is that?"

"The situation where I'm writing a paper on something and, with the wonderful state of our library, there's not enough books on the topics I'm interested in as it is and even less so when other people want to use them," Fiddleford explained.

"Ah. So you're writing a paper on quantum mechanics then?"

Fiddleford nodded. "It's for an English class, actually, but the teacher did tell us that we could write about whatever we wanted. I'm, uh, willing to be she was not expecting me to write about something science-y instead of something like what does that cave story _really_ mean or to evaluate Descartes rationalism in the face of him just accepting God must be real because he doesn't understand how else the world could exist ergo he proved the existence of God."

Stanford was completely on Fiddleford's side. "She really should have given you some content guidelines, then."

Fiddleford laughed. "We'll see if that'll fly when she reads the paper."

"Well I took English last semester and managed to get a B+ on a paper I wrote about lasers," Stanford said. "I had some really interesting stuff in there about the quantum well laser and how a pack of Wrigley's chewing gum was actually read by a bar-code scanner in a grocery store."

"Oh really?" Fiddleford looked intrigued.

"Yeah, he said that he had barely even heard of lasers before reading my paper and he had learned far more than he had ever intended to on the subject," Stanford said. "And the way I figure it, if you teach your professors something it means that you're doing just fine."

"I hope my English teacher feels the same way!" Fiddleford exclaimed. "Not that it will at all stop me from doing it anyway. I would rather stab myself in the face than write something about what passages in Virginia Woolf's writing point to her deep depression."

Stanford made a sympathetic face. "I can imagine. Sounds pretty grim."

"So can I take a look at some of those books?" Fiddleford asked hopefully. "I mean, I understand if you still need them but maybe I could sit here, too, and take notes on the ones you're not currently using."

Stanford nodded. "Alright." He passed one of the books over, making sure to keep his hand fully in view.

It wasn't as though he _wanted_ Fiddleford to notice, Ford remembered, but he really did just want to get that out of the way upfront so he wouldn't have to keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Thanks," Fiddleford said brightly, accepting the book. He flipped to the index and began looking through it.

Stanford watched him work for a moment, clearly struggling with himself. Finally, he said, "So normally, I don't do this."

Fiddleford looked up, a wry twist to his mouth. "Last time someone said that to me it was a girl who let me take her home."

Stanford looked thrown for a moment before coming back with, "Let's save that thought for the second date."

Fiddleford laughed. "No, but seriously, what?"

"I don't actually know how to do this," Stanford admitted.

"Well don't worry about how to say, just say it," Fiddleford said reasonably. "You cannot possibly make more of a mess of it than when I tried to break up with my high school sweetheart because I was moving halfway across the country for college. Poor thing had almost signed a lease on an apartment up here before I managed to get the message across."

"So I guess now would be a bad time to mention I've made plans to have dinner with your parents next week," Stanford said.

"Just a bit, yeah," Fiddleford said. "Come on, now I've just _got_ to know. So much mystery."

"And now I'm sure it'll be anticlimactic."

"Even better. You won't, I don't know, shock or offend me or anything," Fiddleford said.

"It's just…normally people don't completely ignore the finger thing," Stanford said. "It's not like I want to make a big deal of it. I could do with people noticing it a bit less, actually, so maybe it seems weird that I'm bringing it up. I'm just…not really sure how to take this."

"Finger thing?" Fiddleford repeated, looking confused.

Stanford sighed. "Fiddleford, how many fingers do I have?"

Fiddleford cocked his head, looking like he expected this to be a trick question. "Are we counting thumbs?"

"Sure."

"Okay, then. Ten."

Stanford shook his head.

"Nine?"

Another head shake.

" _Eight_? Well, I don't know, I don't really go around counting a man's fingers!"

"I wouldn't think that most people did," Stanford said. "Yet I've never met someone who simply didn't know before."

"Well why don't you just tell me?"

"Why don't you just look down," Stanford suggested. "I'm not hiding my hands under the table."

"Or I guess I could do that," Fiddleford said. He looked down. "Huh. What do you know."

"What do you know?" Stanford couldn't believe it. "Is that it?"

"You know, for a man who claims he doesn't want to make a big deal of it, you sure are underwhelmed by my reaction."

"I _don't_ ," Stanford insisted. "I just can't quite believe it. "I've gotten more of a reaction from people who were there when I was born and so you'd think would have gotten a chance to get used to it by the time I can remember."

"Well I'm sorry about that," Fiddleford said. "Seems to me that the number of fingers you have is really not anyone's business. It's just fingers. It's not like you have an elephant trunk or anything. Not that there'd have been anything wrong with that if you did, come to think of it, but I would understand people having more of a reaction."

Stanford was just smiling stupidly at him.

Fiddleford cleared his throat and looked down. "Or, uh, something like that. You know, I've gotten a lot of crap from people asking about my name."

"Fiddleford," Stanford said. "I don't think I've ever heard it before. Of course, my name's not all that common, either. I've run into a few people with 'Stanford' as their last name but not their first. It's one of the reasons I go by Ford instead of Stan."

Fiddleford nodded. "Yeah, they'd probably think it's short for Stanley."

A flicker of something crossed Stanford's face for a second. "Yeah, something like that. So, uh, what is the story behind your unusual name?"

"My grandmother's British, actually. She hails from a small hamlet in southern England called Fiddleford. And I know what you're thinking. Just because she came from a place is no reason to name your kid after it. But my parents went to London for their honeymoon and they stopped by Fiddleford and they really liked it and it's not like they could agree on anything else name-wise so there you have it."

"I see," Stanford said. "Though actually what I was going to say was that I thought Hamlet was the name of a play and not a…village…type…thing."

"A hamlet's smaller than a village," Fiddleford explained. "I don't think there's any relationship to Shakespeare though I'm hardly an English genius, if you couldn't tell from my refusing to write my paper on an English topic like I'm surely intended to."

"You know," Stanford said, opening his own book back up again. "This was a much pleasanter conversation than I expected when you started with 'I think I hate you.'"

"See, that's another reason to do it," Fiddleford told him. "The conversation then has really nowhere to go but up!"

"Aw, that is so cute!" Mabel exclaimed excitedly. "I didn't know you two were boyfriends!"

He felt a little weird about the fact that she didn't know. From the way everyone kept throwing around the term 'thirty years', he felt reasonably confident that the time they were from was approximately thirty years in the future. Thirty years was a long time. He liked Fiddleford a whole awful lot but it wasn't necessarily a surprise that they hadn't liked each other enough to still stay together in thirty years. What were they supposed to do anyway? Get married? But it was a little…disquieting. He couldn't explain it.

It could have just been the fact that admitting to such things in mixed company was always dangerous but she didn't seem disgusted. She was just really happy for them. It was possible her parents didn't approve of he didn't know for sure he could trust her with that information but…he didn't know. There was just something off about this whole thing.

"We weren't," Ford said. "We just met right then."

"Oh, I know _that_ ," Mabel assured him. "But you two are boyfriends now, right?"

She just looked so excited that Ford couldn't help but smile back at her. "Yeah. We are."

Mabel began squealing mostly incoherently but he could make out the (very high-pitched) phrase 'I am so happy for you!' somewhere in there.

"I'm just going to ignore that," Ford decided once she'd quieted down.

"I would apologize but that would mean apologizing for loving love and I will not do that. Ever," Mabel said seriously.

"Fiddleford was the first person I'd ever met who was really on my level," Fiddleford told her. "Maybe I'd have met a lot more people like me at West Coast Tech but…well, that didn't happen. And he didn't think I was a freak and he was just as interested in solving problems and science as I was. His interest wasn't necessarily in the paranormal but he didn't have a problem with it. I don't interact with the townsfolk of Gravity Falls much but I've seen some of them go to ridiculous lengths to pretend that they don't share the town with virtually every paranormal entity you can think of."

"You two are perfect for each other," Mabel declared, her eyes shining. "Much better than the raccoon! I think she was just staying with him for tax purposes anyway. And she kept running away."

"I, uh, thank you," Ford said. "But what's this about a raccoon?"

"It doesn't matter right now," Mabel said. "Although maybe you and Fiddleford, when you get back, can have a nice, long talk about how dating outside your species might be okay in some circumstances it really does depend on the species. And no matter how pretty the raccoon is or how good a listener it is, it's not scent sent so that is not a good idea."

"Scent sent," Ford repeated, momentarily puzzled. "Do you mean sentient?"

Mabel shrugged. "Probably. If that word makes sense with the rest of what I was saying."

"It does," Ford said. "I, uh, really would like to know more about why you think that's necessary but I will certainly take it under advisement in any event."

"Think of it this way: if we succeed here then there will be nothing _for_ you to know."

"What exactly are we trying to succeed at?" Ford asked.

Mabel looked him over very carefully and Ford got the impression she was gauging his worth. "A week before my thirteenth birthday, the world ended."

Whatever he was expecting to hear, it wasn't that. "I…what?"

"It gets better," Mabel assured him. "So I guess it un-ends. Starts again? But a lot of people got hurt and for a while it was…not good." She hugged herself.

"Stanley…I think he mentioned something about that. My portal?"

"It's complicated," Mabel said. "It's not exactly the portal, more like…Well, that's all your future, right? I'll let him tell you about that. I don't want to confuse the issue here. But we want to stop that from happening."

"My brother told me everything was fine in your future."

"And it is," Mabel confirmed. "But why settle for fine when there's so much pain we can try and avoid in the past?"

"Aren't you worried about, I don't know, erasing yourself from existence?" Ford asked.

"Not really," Mabel said. "I think I mentioned that we've changed the past a bit before and there's people who are in charge of stopping any bad things from happening. And since I can't imagine things going better for you and Grunkle Stan and Mr. McGucket would stop my dad from meeting my mom and having me and my brother, I don't have to worry."

Ford nodded slowly. "So is that it? Watching the deterioration of my family and meeting Fiddleford?"

"Not quite," Mabel said. "But almost. I also cannot even believe how cute your meeting was! It's a freaking meet cute!"

"A what?" Ford asked. "Some kind of cute meeting?"

Mabel nodded. "Whenever two people meet in an unusual and adorable way and then they get together it's called a meet cute."

"We just met in the library, though," Ford objected. "I had a book and he wanted to borrow it."

"And it was _adorable_ ," Mabel said. "Besides, that's not a typical way to meet someone."

"Wouldn't virtually everything be a meet cute then?" Ford asked rhetorically. "What is a normal way to meet someone anyway?"

Mabel tapped her chin. "That is a really good question. It's not like there's some limit on the number of meet cutes that can happen. A friend of mine was riding on a train at the mall, I think, and a woman who worked at a nearby food cart thought it was cool and came up to talk to him. Meet cute!"

"If you say so…"

"As to what wouldn't be…I don't know. Things like your friend introducing you two or a blind date or meeting in class. Things like meeting at a party or being friends for a long time first or something like that."

"Well I'm glad you were able to get so much out of my 'meet cute' then."

Mabel grinned and placed her hands over her heart. "Thank you for being such a giver, Grunkle Ford."

It occurred to Ford to remind her that he had asked not to be called her Grunkle because, true or not, it was all a little bewildering when he was barely twice her age. It occurred to him also that he could point out that he and Fiddleford had met long before she was even born and so it had literally nothing to do with her. It had more even to do with Stanley who had at least been born then and who Ford had been reminded of during the conversation than her.

He said neither of those things.

Mabel, oblivious, took out her time machine and away they went.

It couldn't have been very far in the past. They were standing in Ford's house in Gravity Falls. Stanford was sitting at the table and Fiddleford was just putting a plate of pancakes in front of him.

"I swear to God, Stanford, I'm putting housekeeper on my CV," Fiddleford told him.

Stanford blinked at him. "I mean, you could, but I don't know how that would be academically relevant and it would certainly open you up to people expecting you to do that for them."

Fiddleford just raised an eyebrow.

Stanford smiled at him. "Thank you for making breakfast."

"It's almost a public service," Fiddleford told him as he sat down across from him with his own plate of pancakes. "I'm saving one of our rare geniuses from starving to death."

"I eat."

"Dying of malnutrition," Fiddleford amended. "Scurvy. How embarrassing."

"I'm literally drinking orange juice right now," Stanford said, taking a sip of his juice to prove that.

"And the reason you even have that is…?"

"Well if you didn't always go grocery shopping for me I'd have more of a chance to prove myself," Stanford said.

"Okay," Fiddleford said, nodding. "But, reasonable projection time, how likely would you be to actually eat healthily or buy anything that requires more than three minutes of preparation?"

Stanford pointedly looked at the ceiling.

"You two are so cute together!" Mabel gushed.

Ford found himself smiling as well. "This was a good day. I think this was probably just after his wife left him."

"His wife left him?" Mabel asked, her eyes wide. "I mean, I think I already knew that but I thought it was after he-" She cut herself off.

"After he went mad?" Ford asked, remembering what Stan had said.

Her eyes wide, Mabel nodded. "How did you know about that?"

"Your, uh, Grunkle mentioned it," Ford said. "I don't suppose you can tell me anything more about that?"

"I could," Mabel said. "But I really wouldn't know what to say. And it involves a lot of things you don't want to hear about how you should shut the portal down."

It was absurd. How did continuing to work on the portal to benefit all mankind have anything to do with Fiddleford going mad? And the worst part was that she wouldn't even tell him. Oh, maybe he could badger her until she did – she was, what, thirteen? – but he couldn't quite bring himself to do that to a child. Not when he knew that answers were coming, just not as quickly as he'd like.

He turned his attention back to Fiddleford, as sane and brilliant as ever.

"I do want to thank you for last night, though," Fiddleford said quietly.

Stanford turned pink. "Is that, uh, really a thank you kind of situation?"

"Well I'm not sure what kind of experience you've had but I certainly thanked my wife after our first time together," Fiddleford said. "All things considered, that may not be the best example but I'm pretty sure that our problems didn't stem from a lack of appreciation on my part."

"Why did she leave?" Mabel asked.

Ford shrugged. "I don't know everything. I just know that it was hard for her, up here in the middle of nowhere. It's hard to live up here with all the strangeness, even though people won't admit it. And Fiddleford was always over here working and I guess they just…fell apart. Nothing happened between us until they were separated and she had left, of course."

"It wasn't _quite_ the distraction that I had had in mind," Fiddleford admitted. "But I do think it was better than my previous plan."

"I can see it now," Stanford said dryly. "Ford Pines: better than beer."

"Better than the beer in Gravity Falls, at least," Fiddleford said.

"Now you're just damning me with faint praise."

"Better than the hangovers afterwards."

"I mean, now I'm just being insulted," Stanford said.

Fiddleford tilted his head and smiled at him. "Ten out of ten, would definitely recommend."

"Now that's better," Stanford said, smiling back. "Although who exactly are you recommending to? In a sharing mood, Fiddleford?"

"Usually yes," Fiddleford said. "I've got that reputation for southern hospitality to uphold. In this case, though…maybe not so much."

"I suppose that in Yankee that would be 'Touch him and I stab you'."

"Or at least in Jersey," Fiddleford said playfully.

"I'd be offended if it weren't so true," Stanford replied. "I'm not really looking to share either."

"Under penalty of stabbing, being from Jersey yourself," Fiddleford joked.

Stanford spread his hands out in front of him innocently. "Well, I wasn't going to say anything."

"I, uh, somehow don't think that'll be a problem," Fiddleford said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

Stanford was quiet for a moment. "So are we really doing this then? Last night wasn't a fluke or a mistake or heartbreak?"

"Maybe it was a bit of all of that," Fiddleford said slowly. "But who ever said that was a bad thing?"

"I think that's kind of the definition of a mistake," Stanford said.

Fiddleford snorted. "Tell that to Alexander Fleming. So yes, to answer your question, I think we're really doing this."

He reached across the table to grab Stanford's hand.

Stanford met him halfway.

Mabel started squealing again.

"You, uh, weren't kidding about loving love, were you?" she asked rhetorically.

"I never kid about things like this," Mabel said seriously. "Now, I'm sure that there's all sorts of other past stuff I could show you that might make an impact but I think this is enough to get you into the right frame of mind and start remembering."

"I never actually forgot what happened with my family," Ford pointed out. "Or how much I care for Fiddleford. We're still together _now_."

"Yeah," Mabel said, much more subdued. "Right now. Good old 1979."

"Mabel," Ford said quietly. "What aren't you telling me?"

"A whole awful lot," she admitted. "But that's for them to tell you. Be nice to my brother, okay? He really looks up to you."

"I don't normally make a habit of being cruel to children," Ford told her, a bit stiffly.

She brightened anyway and ran over to hug him. He wasn't expecting it and so just stood frozen but she didn't seem to mind and after a moment pulled away.

"I know that you don't want us to be here doing this and you don't understand," Mabel told him earnestly. "But you're my family and we love you and I really hope that this works out okay!"

She grabbed his sleeve again and then he was home and she was gone. She had come to him in the lab but left him in the living room.

He sat heavily in his armchair, trying to process everything that just happened.

Technically nothing he had seen hadn't been anything he hadn't already lived through. He had gotten a few more hints from his apparent future great-niece about something bad that was going to happen and that they were trying to stop. Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, he found her warnings more alarming than Stan's. But then she had never betrayed him, had she? Or at least not that she was aware of and what did a child like that know of betrayal anyway? Even Stan hadn't struck until they were seventeen.

It was nothing he didn't already know. And some of those memories, the ones with Fiddleford, gave him a warm feeling inside that he was rather glad of. It was good that that was what he had been left with. The one of his parents just left him hollow and reminded him why it was he had never given another serious thought to going back home to see them. The ones with Stan…well. That wound was never going to fully heal over, was it? Maybe they needed more time. Maybe they needed to just learn to live with the damage. Maybe it had been, what, seven and a half years? Maybe that was too long. Maybe it felt he like had just seen him crush his dreams yesterday.

Stanley was complicated and Ford didn't need anything messing up his carefully ordered life.

What had Stan said about his life right now? It was terrible? What did that mean to him, anyway? He always was one for exaggeration but it wasn't as though he _knew_.

Maybe he'd ring their mother in the morning. Christmas didn't matter to her but she'd be glad to hear from him and maybe she could tell him a little more about how Stan was getting by on these cold nights. He didn't think it got cold in Columbia though surely the cold was preferable to prison. What was going on there?

He was so consumed by his thoughts he jumped when he heard the clock chime two.

Nothing happened for a few seconds while he looked wildly around and then a little boy with a Gravity Falls hat on appeared right on his feet.

"Oh, uh, sorry!" the boy said, immediately stepping back. "I, uh, didn't mean to do that."

Ford decided to hazard a guess. "Dipper Pines?"

The boy's eyes lit up and he looked so much like his sister in that moment that Ford realized that they must be twins. How strange that Mabel had not brought that up to refute his insistence she wouldn't understand him and Stanley because she wasn't a twin. He thought he understood her better now, for all the good that would do him. She wouldn't be born for at least fifteen or twenty years.

"You know my name? This is seriously the coolest thing that's ever happened to me!"

For a moment, Ford thought he was going to resemble his sister in another way and start squealing but the boy managed to restrain himself.


	3. Chapter 3

"But wait," Dipper said. "How did you know that? What did they tell you?"

"I must confess I'm probably more lost than you are," Ford said. "I've met your twin sister and an older version of my brother. Apparently you all are from thirty years in the future and are trying to stop me from making some big mistakes and temporarily ending the world. I understand I'm not the only one who made mistakes but I may be the only one you're here to, uh, course correct on."

"We just think it will be easier to stop if we can convince you," Dipper said. "So, uh, yeah. I'm your great-nephew and I'm here to show you what some of the people in your life are up to today. Later today, that is. Right now hopefully they're all sleeping."

"I take it that we're close in your future?" Ford asked, going by Dipper's reaction to him knowing who he was.

Dipper smiled shyly. "I'd like to think so, though we haven't known each other all that long. I…you keep journals by now, right?"

Ford nodded slowly. "I do."

"Well I found one of them," Dipper explained. "I was staying in Gravity Falls for the summer with Mabel. The name had worn off of it so I had no idea that it was yours. I read it and it was just such a help. It was so interesting and just…really inspiring, you know. First time I've ever come across anyone who has my interest in mysteries and solving things. And you were the biggest mystery of them all. The Mystery in the Mystery Shack. And then when I figured out that the author was my own great-uncle, well…I was just glad that you didn't seem disappointed in me."

So someone would be reading his journals. He hadn't really thought about that one way or another, they were just a way for him to keep track of the things he had learned. But at least this boy, his great-nephew, seemed to appreciate it. Seemed to appreciate _him_. He'd have to make sure he didn't do anything to betray that trust.

"How could you possibly disappoint me?" Ford asked.

Dipper just shrugged and looked away.

"You weren't worried I'd disappoint you?"

Dipper's eyes widened. "Of course not! You could never! I mean, you're not perfect, of course. I know a lot about the mistakes you've made but I've made mistakes, too. The important thing is trying to fix them and not blaming the wrong people."

"Mistakes like…whatever it is you and the others are here to try and fix but that you can't tell me about," Ford said.

"It's not that we can't tell you," Dipper said. "It's just that I think it'll be easier to convince you if you don't have to be _convinced_ but you can just see it for yourself."

"If you say so," Ford said shortly. "Why don't we get started with what you _can_ show me?"

Dipper nodded. "Right."

He reached for Ford's hand and the two of them were off.

They wound up back in the kitchen of his childhood home. Only his parents were there this time and they both looked older than the last time he had seen them. They had come up for college graduation which wasn't that long ago and it hadn't seemed as bad then.

He had, completely naturally, never seen the two of them alone together.

His mother was trying to eat but she was jittery and couldn't seem to focus long enough for a good half of her attempts to make it to her mouth. His father, for once, didn't have a newspaper out but he was sitting and eating in silence. His sunglasses were still on.

"Out of curiosity," he said, "do you find it odd that I've never seen my father without sunglasses on?"

"Absolutely," Dipper said immediately. "Do you think there's a chance he could be possessed?"

"Well I _didn't_ but now I'm starting to wonder," Ford said. "He never did actually tell us why he wore them."

"So, uh, this is your parents," Dipper said. "I guess you knew that. They don't look like they're having a very good time."

"I guess not," Ford said. He had never given a lot of thought to his parents after they left. They were just one more thing tying him to the past and to Glass Shard Beach and everything he wanted to forget. Their resentment wore on him, whether he felt like arguing with them or not, and it was so easy – a continent away – to let it slide. To just keep letting it slide.

"I just…do you think he's going to call?" his mother asked suddenly.

"I don't see why he'd call today," his father said.

"Lots of people call their family today," his mother replied.

"Yes because it's Christmas," his father said. "We don't celebrate Christmas so why would he feel a need to call?"

His mother set down her fork and looked accusingly at him. "I don't see how you can be so uncaring."

"And I don't see why you're so passive," his father said. "If you absolutely must hear from Shermie just go call him yourself."

"I-I don't want to bother him," his mother said. "I know he has his own family now and I wouldn't want to be a burden."

His father shrugged. "That's your choice then. Don't risk being a burden but drive yourself crazy wanting to speak to him."

"You do realize that Shermie is our only child still willing to speak to us?" his mother demanded angrily. "Three boys and Shermie is the _only_ one we haven't somehow managed to alienate. And if it weren't him feeling guilty about the twins and us being all alone and our grandson I'm not even sure he'd have started talking to us again."

"If you're talking about Stanley, why do you talk as if it's a matter of him not wanting to talk to me? If he were here right now I wouldn't have anything to say to him, either," his father said bluntly. "I'm sure he hasn't managed to make anything of himself."

"And how exactly do you expect him to make something of himself when you kicked him out before he got his diploma?" his mother demanded.

"I didn't kick him out of _school_ ," his father replied. "He could have worked something out. But we all knew he wasn't going to make something of himself regardless so why pretend? You sound awfully concerned about someone you aren't planning on calling, my dear. Or do you not want to 'bother' him, too? But I guess I'm fine to harass."

"You know very well, or at least you should, that Stanley doesn't have a reliable telephone number," his mother said icily. "I simply _cannot_ call him. I have no choice but to wait to hear from him and if he doesn't call as often as I'd like then I can't blame him."

"No, God forbid you ever actually hold that boy accountable for anything," his father said, disgusted. "You know, I wonder sometimes if it was your spoiling the boy that led to him being so worthless."

His mother began to shake. "He's not worthless."

"Of course he is," his father said dismissively. "By any objective standard, he's worthless. Even if we don't compare him to Ford who also turned out to be a bit of a disappointment. We gave him _everything_ and he can't even share any of his college money? Who the fuck does he think he is?"

"Maybe he thinks he's a boy whose brother was thrown out on the streets and who had to live under the threat of that happening to him, too."

"Eh, he should know I'd have never done that to him," his father said dismissively. "And as for the rest, I don't recall him saying a single word about it when it happened."

"Like it would have mattered."

"Might have shown he gave a damn, at least," his father said. "I notice you're not waiting for his call, either. So tell me, how did we fail Ford that you don't blame him for no longer speaking to us?"

"He calls," his mother said. "It's been five months since he did but he calls."

"I thought you just said Shermie's the only one speaking to us," his father said. "You can't even get your story straight for one simple conversation, can you?"

"It's different. He's so far away-"

"Shermie lives in California," his father interrupted.

"He's just getting all caught up in his research, I'm sure."

"He couldn't even pick a more profitable field. Virtually anything would be more profitable than monster hunting or whatever," his father said. "It's that damn finger, isn't it? I knew we should have gotten it removed."

"You can't just go around cutting a person's finger off!" his mother exclaimed.

"Well, sure, not _now_. You wouldn't let me do it, then."

"There's nothing wrong with Stanford's extra fingers," his mother insisted. "And there's nothing wrong with him trying to live his own life and not calling more often. I'm sure he even has a good reason why he won't share his money with us. Just because I'd like it to be different doesn't mean he's doing anything wrong."

"No, it just means that you're going to be driving me crazy worrying the rest of the night," his father grumbled.

His mother didn't have an answer for that and they lapsed back into silence.

"Wow," Dipper said awkwardly after a moment. "That's pretty heavy."

"There's a reason I don't make the effort to fly back for a visit," Ford said shortly. "I do always mean to call but somehow…"

Dipper nodded. "Yeah, I get it. Mabel wrote our parents a letter every week while we were in Gravity Falls but I think I wrote them like two. It's not that I meant not to but…it's easy to lose track of things. Especially in a place like this! I was way too busy ghost hunting and stuff to remember them. And they got it but I still felt a little guilty."

"Did you ever know them?" Ford asked, gesturing towards his parents.

"Not very well," Dipper said. "They were pretty old and lived so far away. And I guess maybe if this was the kind of thing my dad or grandpa saw they might have, uh, decided it was best to just leave it alone, you know?"

"My parents are your great-grandparents," Ford said, shaking his head. "I'm not even that much older than you."

Dipper shrugged. "Time travel. It gets confusing."

"I understand from your sister that you had a bit more of a, shall we say, supportive home environment," Ford offered.

Dipper nodded. "Oh, yeah. Definitely. Sorry, I just have to ask something. When they said you wouldn't share your money…"

Ford tensed, really not wanting to have to have this argument again with a brand new family member who would have been born long after his graduation. He didn't know if he was still getting research grants in thirty years but he rather hoped so. He also hoped that his family might have stopped resenting him for not sharing but it seemed almost too much to hope for. "Yes?"

"They're talking about your scholarships, right? And then some kind of research grant?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's not exactly the kind of thing you can just share, is it?" Dipper asked. "They don't just say 'Hey, you're going to college, take a million dollars.' They give you tuition and living expenses and if you're frugal you might have some spending money. And you could get more with loans but you have to pay those back and the interest is pretty ridiculous. And grants are even worse. I mean, I don't really know much about that but I've done some basic research and from what I can tell you always have to justify every penny of research money you're spending. I'm already not sure how you explained the whole portal thing to them but supporting your parents financially? That's definitely not going to fly."

Ford gave him a startled smile. "That…that's exactly…thank you."

Dipper smiled back. "That's me. I'm just an incredibly understanding guy." He turned back to his great-grandparents. "I mean, I feel bad for them and everything. Who wants to be alone? Well, he might, I can't really tell, but she doesn't. But do you really expect a healthy relationship with your kids if you kick one of them out?"

"That wasn't…that wasn't her fault," Ford said grudgingly. "She didn't want that but it wasn't her decision. From what I understand, she did still give him what she could and stay in contact even though it always set Dad off."

"I still can't believe it," Dipper said, shaking his head. "I mean, I know these things happen, I guess, but to have it happen to someone you know? Someone you care about? My whole life Grunkle Stan was also really cheap and ran the fakest tourist trap you've ever seen and I guess it makes sense when you find out he was _literally homeless_ but…I don't know. I just have a hard time believing it."

"I don't know anything about him being homeless," Ford said.

"Well he is," Dipper said. "And now you know. Though, uh, I don't really feel up to seeing that right now. Not after this. Maybe we can check in on my Dad and Grandpa Shermie?"

Ford nodded his agreement and off they went.

Another kitchen table, this one bigger and much more cheerful. Baby Isaac would have been what, eight? And there was Shermie and Rachel and much more food than three people could possibly hope to consume.

"A toast!" Shermie declared, laughing. He held up his water glass.

Isaac eagerly held his up. "Toast! Toast!"

"He doesn't mean the food, kid," Rachel told him, smiling. She held her own glass up.

"To Christmas, my absolute favorite holiday that I don't celebrate," Shermie declared.

The three of them clinked their glasses together.

"Are you so sure we don't celebrate it?" Rachel asked wryly. "We're certainly eating like it."

"I like Christmas," Isaac declared.

"You sound like my brother," Shermie said fondly. "Used to drive my dad crazy the way he'd practically convert every December. And every July, come to think of it. Christmas is great for recruitment, really."

"That's not a no," Rachel pointed out.

"Why would you like a holiday you don't celebrate?" Isaac asked curiously.

"Why do you?" Shermie countered.

Isaac thought about it. "I like the Christmas shows! Rudolph and Santa Claus is Comin' to Town and The Year without a Santa Clause!"

"Well that's as good an explanation as any," Rachel said. "What about you, Dad?"

Shermie made a face. "It is so weird when you call me that."

"Nothing at all like my last boyfriend, then," Rachel mused.

Shermie sent a scandalized look Isaac's way. "Really?"

"You really should take advantage of euphemisms flying over our son's head for as long as it lasts, dear," Rachel said.

Shermie looked suspiciously over at Isaac. "I'm not sure I trust him."

Isaac giggled. "Daddy! Of course you can trust me!"

"I am, of course, going to have to trust that about how I can trust you," Shermie said. "You see my dilemma."

"I don't know about that but I certainly see you avoiding the question," Rachel said.

Shermie looked surprised. "Avoiding? Oh, I didn't tell you, did I? It's the fact that, unlike other holidays I don't celebrate like Kwanzaa or Earth Day, Christmas is a day that you get off from work. It may be a Tuesday but I don't need to be at work. And I didn't need to be there yesterday, either! What a time to be alive!"

"Christmas?"

"Christmas!" Shermie agreed.

"Lucky you," Rachel said. "Some of us aren't lucky enough to have our place of employment just shut down over the holidays. I managed to avoid working today but last night's shift was brutal."

"That's what you get for being a nurse," Shermie said. "I'd like to think that I made a much more sensible career decision."

Rachel laughed. "I'm sure you would."

"I tried calling Ford but he didn't answer," he said suddenly. "I had a lovely conversation with that friend of his, McGucket."

"Friend," Rachel repeated meaningfully.

Shermie rolled his eyes tolerantly. "Yes, friend."

"I'm just saying-"

"I know but I'm hardly going to ask him! How awkward would that be?" Shermie asked.

"Awkward because you have a problem with it?" Rachel asked.

Shermie crossed his arms. "After that disaster with Stanley and him literally dropping off the face of the planet, I don't care what Ford gets up to. I'm not turning my back on him. It's just…how do you go up to someone and ask if someone they've presented as a friend is a friend or is a, I don't know, boyfriend or something? If he wanted me to know he'd let me know. I don't want to put him in an awkward position. And if the answer is no I may just upset him. Best just leave it alone."

" 'Best just leave it alone' describes your family's entire approach to everything and why I was able to pass your family history off as the plot to a soap opera," Rachel said.

"That may be true but I have literally only heard from Stan once in the last eight years and that was to tell me that he was doing great and I shouldn't worry he was going to mess everything up anymore," Shermie said. "I tried to tell him that of course I didn't think that and to ask him where he was but he hung up too fast. I don't know if he's even-" He cut himself off looking at Isaac. "So, yeah. Ford could join a doomsday cult and bring about the end of the world and, while I would question his life choices and have an intervention, it wouldn't change a thing."

"Maybe you can try Ford back later," Rachel suggested softly.

"I will," Shermie said, looking determined. "In fact, I intend to keep calling until either my brother comes to the phone or he takes it off the hook, whichever comes first."

"Can I help?" Isaac asked hopefully.

Shermie grinned and leaned over to ruffle his son's hair. "Absolutely. We can start a family tradition: annoy our relatives into talking to us."

"He was right," Ford said abruptly.

"About?" Dipper asked.

"Fiddleford and I," Ford said. "I guess she was right, too. Rachel. I haven't seen her since they got married and that was before any of this even happened."

"Grandma Rachel is really great," Dipper said, smiling. "Look how young she and Grandpa Shermie are! And my dad! He's smaller than I am."

"I'm just surprised," Ford said. "We only got together after their separation. The divorce isn't finalized but she's seeing other people, too. We all know it's over. We haven't told anyone and it's not like I speak to them often enough for them to have picked up on something. They haven't even met Fiddleford. I wonder why they came to that conclusion."

"Well…have you dated anyone else?" Dipper asked.

Ford shook his head. "Not really, no. But I wouldn't have told them if I had."

Dipper sighed. "I think that's part of the problem."

"Part of what problem?" Ford asked, getting the feeling that Dipper wasn't referring to just how his brother and sister-in-law had come to suspect his relationship with Fiddleford.

"I just…" Dipper sighed and adjusted his hat. "Look, you can live your life however you want. I know that this, uh, intervention might make it seem like we're trying to control you but we're not. We all want you to be a bigger part of our family, though. You're probably the coolest relative I've got, after all."

Ford felt a strange warmth flood through him. "Cool?"

"Yeah," Dipper said, smiling back. "And, for various reasons, we haven't gotten to know you very well until recently and we all wish that that wasn't the case. So if you did want to be the type of relative who told us when you were dating we would love it. You don't have to but we want to know, is all."

Ford sighed. It was hard to turn down an eager child who clearly loved him and wanted to be a part of his life. But it was hard, too, to remember the rest of the world even existed as he worked to build a better future with Bill and Fiddleford. "I'll try."

Dipper nodded, looking cautiously hopeful.

"I do have to ask, though," Ford said. "I understand why Shermie wasn't disgusted at the thought of Fiddleford and myself. After Stan…well, he hadn't been there and he didn't agree but what could he do? Stan was gone. I don't know enough about Rachel to know her reasons. But your sister thought it was adorable and you don't seem to take issue with it either. Was it just something those two passed on or…?"

Dipper smiled. "Oh, yeah. I guess 1979 wasn't the most accepting of eras. Stonewall was…sometime in the sixties. I don't remember."

"1969. And today sodomy is still at least partially illegal in 29 states and in DC though, fortunately, Oregon decriminalized it seven years ago. New Jersey went that way last year."

"I don't know if I mentioned that I'm from 2012," Dipper said, "but, well, I am. Gay marriage is legal in, like, six states and in DC. I'm from California and…we're trying. And a whole bunch of other states have civil unions which is like marriage-lite or something. So I'm not saying we live in a gay-friendly paradise or anything but you won't have to hide anywhere near as much."

It made sense. Before 1962 sodomy was criminalized everywhere in the country. Not the states were slowly changing their mind on that. It made sense. Thirty-three years was a long time. He couldn't quite imagine it but _it made sense_.

Ford cleared his throat. "Thank you for telling me that, my boy."

Dipper puffed his chest out. "I always like to be the bearer of good news."

Ford looked back at the scene playing out in front of them. "He seems like a good father."

"He is," Dipper said. "And he's a really good grandfather, too."

"I'm glad," Ford said. "Our parents did try – sometimes more than at other times – but they weren't exactly what I'd call the warm family type. Shermie had to learn that all on his own and I'm glad he did and I'm glad that his son was able to do the same for you."

"I just wish that he could have had that, too," Dipper said quietly. "That you and Grunkle Stan could have had that, too. I've seen terrible parents, you know. By the time Mabel and I came along Grandpa Shermie didn't need much parenting and our great-grandparents were really old anyway. But I know a girl whose parents had one of those dog bells or something and they used to ring it whenever they wanted her to come or to stop doing something and it really messed her up. And they _never_ would have thrown her out or not given her every material thing she could ever want."

"Yes, well," Ford said, looking away. "It's a little late for that."

"For a happy childhood – or happier, I guess – maybe," Dipper agreed. "But you're, what? Twenty-six? Twenty-seven?"

"Twenty-five, actually," Ford corrected.

"Even better! You have so much time to have a family! Even if you don't want to reach out to Grunkle Stan, which I really think you should do, you don't have a reason to be mad at Grandpa Shermie, do you?"

"No, I don't," Ford conceded. He felt like he had to say something else. "It's not as though I were trying to avoid him, you see. It's just that…"

"I know," Dipper said, looking as if he really did know. "I've been there. But hey, let's check on how things are playing out at your house!"

"Won't that ruin it for me tomorrow?" Ford asked.

Dipper shrugged and started fiddling with his device. "If you don't like it you can change it."

They were back in his living room. This time it was day and there was Christmas music playing softly in the background.

Fiddleford and little Tate were sitting at the kitchen table bowing their heads as Fiddleford said grace. There was an empty plate in front of a third chair that Ford could only assume was his.

"That's strange," Ford murmured. "Why didn't they get me?"

"Are you sure we shouldn't wait for Uncle Ford?" Tate asked.

"He calls you Uncle Ford?" Dipper asked. "That's really cute."

"He might join us later, Tate," Fiddleford said. "But I already went down there a few times and he's…well…I don't want all of this amazing food to go to waste!"

"What could I possibly be doing that I wouldn't come up here for?" Ford wondered aloud. They weren't working on anything that could go unexpectedly wrong and demand that he spend the day trying to contain it. He wasn't in the middle of anything that absolutely couldn't wait. And he knew how important this was to Fiddleford. It was the first Christmas since the separation and even though Gravity Falls wasn't as exciting for kids as California, Fiddleford had been determined to make this day magical. Ford had been determined to help him. And now it appeared that he wasn't living up to his own expectations. He couldn't even supposed he was in trouble, either, as if that were the case Fiddleford would be down there rescuing him not calmly making excuses to his son.

"It _does_ look awfully good," Tate said slowly, chewing on his lip. He nodded. "Okay! We'll just have to make sure that we save something for Uncle Ford later."

Fiddleford smiled. "That's very thoughtful of you, Tate."

"Thanks," Tate said, brightly. "Did you know that Mom has a new boyfriend?"

Fiddleford's smile turned a little strained. "Oh? Good for her."

"Does that mean that you're not getting back together?"

Fiddleford tensed and set down his fork. "Tate, I'm sorry. So But sometimes two people just need to go do different things in different places. It doesn't mean we hate each other and it doesn't mean that we don't both love you _so much_. I just want to make sure you know that."

"But you're not getting back together," Tate said, slouching down a little in his seat.

"I'm afraid not," Fiddleford said.

"Mom's new boyfriend is really nice," Tate said. "His name is Bruce. He works at Apple."

Fiddleford got that look he always got whenever anyone brought up computers and what he could have been a part of if he'd stayed in California. He always insisted he had no regrets but Ford very carefully never brought it up anyway.

"I'm glad to hear that he's nice."

"Yeah, he's pretty cool. Except he wants me to call him dad."

Fiddleford started. "Call him…we haven't been…she hasn't been…what does your mother think about all this?"

Tate shrugged. "I don't know. They went in another room to talk after that."

"Did you call him that?" Fiddleford asked, trying to sound casual.

"I told him I might think about calling him Uncle Bruce," Tate said. "I already have a dad but you can never have too many uncles. I have to keep watching to see if he's earned uncle status like Uncle Ford did."

Fiddleford coughed. "Uncle Ford. Right."

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Tate asked innocently.

"I do not, no."

"Oh." Tate was quiet for a few minutes, eating. "I think you should get one."

Fiddleford took a moment to respond. "And why is that?"

Tate shrugged. "Well Mom has a boyfriend so it's only fair, right?"

"I…don't think it works that way. Your mother has a boyfriend because she wants a boyfriend."

"Do you?"

"Do I want a boyfriend?" Fiddleford asked.

Tate gave him a strange look. "No, a girlfriend."

"Not right now, no," Fiddleford said. "I'm sure that if I do want one I can find one."

"That's good," Tate said. "I don't want you to get lonely."

"Oh, how could I get lonely when I have you?" Fiddleford asked, ruffling Tate's hair affectionately.

"Stop! Stop!" Tate said, giggling and playfully batting his father's hands away.

"Besides," Fiddleford said when he pulled back, "I have friends here. And I have Ford and right now he's all the company I really need."

Tate took a moment to answer, flattening his hair down with childish solemnity. "But…he's in the basement. And it's Christmas."

Fiddleford winced. "Ah, well, he has important work to do and he doesn't celebrate Christmas."

"But you do," Tate said. "What if I was with Mom for Christmas? What about other holidays like Thanksgiving?"

"He was there for Thanksgiving!" Fiddleford assured him.

"What about next Thanksgiving?" Tate pressed.

"Tell you what," Fiddleford said. "After we finish eating I'll go try him again. Maybe we can watch some of those Christmas specials you love together and make some hot chocolate. Ford makes the _best_ hot chocolate."

Tate nodded slowly, still looking a little skeptical.

"I don't understand," Ford said again. "Why aren't I here? Fiddleford mentioned he went down to get me so it's not that I don't know. And it's literally tomorrow. Later today! I can't possibly have changed so much in such a short period of time that I wouldn't want to be here for this. I _knew_ how hard this Christmas was going to be."

"I don't know," Dipper said, looking like he wished that he had the answers.

"I can't believe I wouldn't be here for him," Ford said, shaking his head.

"I wasn't planning on it but do you want to see what you were doing?" Dipper offered.

Ford steeled himself then nodded. "Yes. Yes I do."

Even though it was just in the basement, they used Dipper's device to get down there so that they wouldn't risk Fiddleford hearing anything and going to investigate.

Ford wasn't sure what he had expected but he certainly didn't expect to see himself sitting at his desk in his study and sleeping.

"I'm asleep?" he asked, a sudden sense of anger filling him. "It's Christmas, I'm letting Fiddleford down, and all that I'm doing instead is sleeping? Even considering I doubt I'm getting much sleep tonight, I've gone much longer without it!"

"I don't think he wouldn't try to wake you up," Dipper said. "Especially since he didn't tell his son that he just didn't want to wake you."

"Then what is it?" Ford asked. "I'm not _that_ heavy of a sleeper!"

Dipper hesitated. "I just, I mean, are you sure that it's really sleep?"

"What else could it be?"

"Maybe you're meeting with Bill," Dipper suggested.

Ford paused. "Bill? Is this where you try to convince me-"

"No, it's not," Dipper interrupted. "But just think of it this way. Your meetings with Bill in the mindscape? Surely that's not normal sleep. Maybe it's hard to wake up from that."

He had woken up when Mabel had first appeared in his lab. He didn't know how long she had been waiting but she didn't seem like she hadn't been able to wake him. And Bill had sensed her, hadn't he? But then, she wasn't trying to hide like they were. Would Bill know they were there? How powerful was he, anyway? How powerful was this time device?

"It does seem like a likely scenario," Ford said, "especially since I refuse to believe I'd just regularly sleep through this. I must have only thought I'd be there for a minute and lost track of time. Or, well, time does seem to work differently in the mindscape. It's never a problem at night but during the day…But there's no way to know."

"Isn't there?" Dipper asked, looking at the device Ford had built to scan thoughts and show what was happening in the mindscape.

"How do we know it wouldn't wake him?" Ford asked. "Me?"

"We don't," Dipper said, shrugging. "Last time I tried it on a sleeping guy he woke up pretty quickly but I also think he was a lot more paranoid than you are. And if he does wake up we can just quickly run away. And this future won't even happen as long as you make sure you don't think you have enough time for a quick chat with Bill and then accidentally blow off your boyfriend and his son."

"That is a good point," Ford conceded. "Very well, let's do this."

He crept over to the machine, programmed in what he was looking to do, then gently placed the helmet over his sleeping self's head.

Bill quickly appeared on the screen as well as his sleeping counterpart. They were playing chess and Stanford was sitting in a chair sipping tea.

Beside him, Dipper started violently.

"Dipper?" Ford asked, concerned.

"I'm fine," Dipper lied, forcing a smile.

"Please, don't do that. Tell me, what is it?"

"I just…I haven't had the best experiences with Bill, that's all," Dipper said.

"You and everyone else, it seems," Ford said. "With them I can understand. People hate and fear the unknown and even I, after all this time, still don't know very much about him. Add that to the fact that they can only interact with him when he's possessing me and it makes sense why they reject him. I don't like it and I wish they were better than that but I do understand." He glanced at his hand. "I've spent my whole life having to understand."

Dipper looked torn. "Grunkle Ford, I-"

"But you seem different," Ford interrupted. "I don't know you very well, of course, but you love my journals. You seem like you're every bit as interested in the unknown as I am. So I have to conclude there must be some other reason for you to react like this."

"There is," Dipper admitted, taking off his hat and wringing it in his hands. "But I just…tell you what. We can talk about it later, okay? After we get through this. You're not going to like what I have to say."

"I don't suppose I will," Ford said. "But I am a scientist, Dipper, and a scientist never runs from the truth."

"Yeah," Dipper said and strangely he looked almost satisfied at that. He put his hat back on his head.

Ford turned his attention to the screen.

Stanford seemed to have no idea that he was letting anyone down. "I know that, Bill, I do. And I appreciate the thought, really."

"Oh, I see how it is!" Bill said, laughing. "You think you know more than I do!"

"Normally I'd say no," Stanford said. "But when the question is literally if I'm working too hard then I think that I, as the person in question and as the only human here besides, would know better than you if that's true."

"That's because you always feel like you have to push yourself," Bill argued. "Just because you _can_ work harder before you literally pass out from exhaustion doesn't mean that you should, Sixer."

" _Don't_ call him that," Dipper said harshly.

Ford glanced over and saw that he was clenching his fists so hard that his knuckles were turning white.

"I know," Stanford said. "Fiddleford always thinks that, too. Yesterday he played banjo music at me until I put my work down for a minute."

"Banjo music," Bill repeated with faux-horror. "Let's try not to drive old Fiddleford to those kinds of desperate lengths, shall we?"

"I think he likes it."

Bill considered that. "Well, he can't have great taste in _everything_." He looked meaningfully at Stanford who blushed and grinned.

"If we want to talk about who knows more about humanity, may I remind you that you still don't seem to understand pain?" Stanford asked rhetorically.

"I wouldn't say that I don't _understand_ pain," Bill corrected. "I just find it hilarious and so don't know why other people always try to avoid it."

"Because it's painful," Stanford said. "It's all there in the name."

"I'm beginning to suspect that I just don't experience pain in the same way humans do," Bill said. "That or I'm just really hardcore."

"It's got to be one of those. Look, I know that you worry about me and maybe I am going to, I don't know, give myself an ulcer or something," Stanford said. "Raise my blood pressure. But how can I stop now? I'm close! I can tell how close I am to a breakthrough and then we can really start to build the portal, not just talk about it. And then one day we'll actually be able to meet face-to-face and we'll change the world."

"Exactly. One day. I've waited a long time for this and I can wait a little longer," Bill said. "And just because my lifespan makes your lifespan seem downright mayflyish doesn't mean that you don't have a little time to rest, either."

"I just feel almost guilty when I'm not doing something," Ford admitted. "I should be doing something. Every hour I spend working is an hour closer to achieving our dreams. I don't want to disappoint you."

Bill laughed fondly. "Oh, IQ, as if you could. It seems every minute I spend with you I grow convinced that I picked exactly the right person."

Ford, despite his feelings about leaving Fiddleford by himself, felt a pleasant shiver running through him. It scared him a little how much Bill's good opinion meant to him. Fiddleford's mattered quite a bit as well but he never really felt he had to worry about disappointing him the way he worried about disappointing Bill. Not that Bill had ever given him reason to feel that way, quite the opposite, but that was just the natural reaction to having a friend who was as incredible and awe-inspiring and just _so far beyond him_ as Bill was.

Stanford swallowed hard. "I'll, uh, I'll try not to let you down."

"It's almost cute that you think you could," Bill said.

"Oh, I was supposed to be doing something," Stanford said suddenly. He snapped his fingers. "Dinner. Fiddleford and Tate."

"I'm sure you have time," Bill said. "After all, he hasn't been down here to get you, has he?"

"I guess not," Stanford agreed.

"And you can wake up now if you want but it just seems a little premature to me. I'd rather spend time with you while you wait for your boyfriend to need you."

"This is nice," Stanford admitted. "Just you and me and no work to do. I don't think I could do this for very long, I'd go crazy, but for now it's…nice."

"I don't understand," Ford said. "I know that Fiddleford went down a few times. And I know that Bill can tell when someone's around me and I'm in the mindscape with him. Why would he tell me otherwise?"

"I can think of a few reasons," Dipper said, carefully looking at the ceiling.

"I really wish you'd just tell me," Ford said. "I do enjoy spending time with Bill and it looks like we're really connecting in there but there's other time to do that, time that doesn't cut into the time I meant to spend with Fiddleford."

Dipper nodded. "I know. And you're going to find out soon enough. You're not going to want to but it's important. We just have one more stop."

"Shouldn't I put this back?" Ford asked, gesturing to the helmet.

"If you want," Dipper said, shrugging. "But this future, at least the same future of tomorrow, won't be happening anyway. Not if you're serious about not wanting to disappoint McGucket. And maybe a whole lot more will change, too. That's up to you, though."

Dipper held out his hand and Ford knew exactly where they would be going. Or rather, to whom they would be going.

"Stanley."

Dipper nodded. "Grunkle Stan."

It was cold where they were. That wasn't a surprise. It was late December, after all. Everywhere else he had gone had either been during the summer or inside.

He didn't like the thought of Stanley being outside. Plenty of people were outside at various points in the winter. Actually, unless someone literally refused to leave their house then everyone did. But hadn't the future Stan said he was homeless?

"Oh, geez," Dipper said, shivering. "We need to do this quickly. I am _not_ dressed for this."

"Agreed," Ford said.

He saw the car first. The Stanleymobile. He hadn't seen that car in ten years now and, honestly, he was a little surprised to see it now. Yes, he knew they were going to Stan but that car had been used when Stan had first gotten it. A homeless man couldn't afford to take great care of it. And maybe he couldn't afford to get a different car either but how was this still running?

And what did it say that he still knew that car even after all this time?

He felt Dipper tugging at his arm. "He's over there, look."

He looked to where Dipper was pointing and saw a man digging through his pockets in front of a payphone.

They quickly hurried over to him.

"I have to admit, I'm kind of expecting to see Clark Kent duck out of this," Dipper said.

"I take it pay phones aren't around in your future?"

"Not really, no. Everyone has a personalized cell phone and these things are a little obsolete," Dipper said.

Stan looked cold. He had on a coat but it didn't seem like it was all that warm and it had patches on it. He must have been wearing it for a while. His hair was a little greasy and his expression was halfway between miserable and anxious.

"I wonder who he's calling," Dipper said.

"Probably our mother," Ford said. "She's the only one who really kept in touch with him. I mean, I know Shermie wants to but I guess no one ever told Stan that or if they did then he didn't listen."

Stan had been a boxer once. He'd been in great shape and that more than anything had gotten the bullies to leave them alone. He hadn't welcomed them back when Stan was gone. Now it was hard to tell but if the way he was hunched in on himself was any indication that had changed. When would he get the opportunity to train or to eat right out here on the road?

Ford watched as Stan slowly entered the phone number.

"Hey, that's my number!" Ford exclaimed.

"It is?" Dipper asked, standing on his tip-toes trying to see.

"I did kind of worry about my brother once he was kicked out," Ford explained. "I always figured he'd call or something if he needed it. And here? Homeless and freezing? He must be finally reaching out. I hope, not knowing how bad it is, I don't say anything that makes this harder than has to be."

Dipper wasn't so sure. "Maybe."

"Hello, Stanford Pines' residence. This is Fiddleford McGucket," Fiddleford's cheerful voice could faintly be heard through the speaker.

"Do I just never answer the phone anymore?" Ford wondered. "I thought I rarely received calls but now it seems there's every chance I get calls all the time but Fiddleford always answers them. I really need to ask about that…"

Stan closed his eyes tight and then slammed the phone down.

"I don't understand," Ford said. "He clearly doesn't have the money to waste like that and he didn't even _try_ to talk to me."

Dipper looked at his hands. "Have you ever gotten calls like that before? Where they just hang up when you answer?"

Ford frowned. "I do. All the time, in fact. I never understood why or who it was. Are you saying that you think it was _Stanley_?"

Dipper shrugged. "It might be."

Stan sank to the ground, seeming not to mind the snow on the ground. "Great. Just great. He can't even be bothered to pick up the phone now."

"It seems that's not all that I can't be bothered to do," Ford said guiltily.

"I mean, he's probably busy. He can't be ducking my calls on purpose because he doesn't even know I'm the one calling."

It seemed Dipper was right about that one, though.

"One of these days I'm going to actually say something," Stan said. "One of these days. I just have to figure out what to say first. I mean, it can't be any worse than him already hating me and wanting nothing to do with me, whatever happens, but I do hate to kick a man when he's down. Especially when that man is me. But if I'm not going to do it then I've got to stop wasting my money on this. It's one or the other, Stan. You can't have both."

"Grunkle Stan," Dipper said softly, kneeling down beside him. "Wow that's cold."

"You can't change this," Ford reminded him.

"You could," Dipper said, turning and meeting his eye.

"This is the present, right?" Ford asked. "I couldn't change it either."

"But you could change tomorrow. And the day after that. And the next thirty years," Dipper pressed, climbing to his feet again.

"I-I know that this is bad," Ford said. "At my lowest I've never been anywhere close to homeless. But what am I supposed to do? I don't know where he is. This is just some cold place. For all I know he's in Canada."

"But he's calling you," Dipper said. "He's going to call you today. All you have to do is pick up."

"And if I do, what then?" Ford challenged. "All he ever does is hang up."

"I don't know," Dipper said. "I can't promise he won't just keep doing that. He's the one with all the cards here in how to reach out or not to people. But you know he's going to call. If you could just, I don't know, try something. Try saying his name. That might get him to hesitate. Try telling him you miss him or want to help him or something like that. Maybe he just hangs up. Maybe he stops calling. Or maybe you can save him."

"I don't want my brother to be homeless," Ford said. "I never wanted that. I thought he'd be okay."

"He wasn't," Dipper said grimly. "And it won't be. Not for a long time. And that's not your fault. But if you see it now and you do nothing…well at some point you do start to bear some of the responsibility. I want to help him but I can't. I'm just a kid and I haven't even been born yet. But you can fix this."

"I…" Ford shook his head, trying to clear it. He couldn't think about his right now. "You said you'd tell me about Bill."

"Do you promise to let me finish?" Dipper asked. "You're not going to like what I have to say. You're not going to want to believe it. But don't ask questions you won't listen to the answers to."

"I can't promise I won't object to what you're saying," Ford said. "I can't. But I will at least hear you out."

"We first met Bill when this idiot kid summoned him into the world to steal, well, your house," Dipper said.

"My house?" Ford repeated, surprised. "But-"

"It's a long story," Dipper interrupted. "That doesn't really matter. He went into Stan's mindscape to try and get the code to the safe with the deed in it."

"Conventional wisdom is that possession is nine tenths of the law," Ford said. "In Gravity Falls it's that other tenth as well."

"Gideon called off the deal because it was taking too long and he just outright attacked us with a bulldozer," Dipper said. "There is no way that kid is ever going to be well-adjusted. But anyway, despite being an invading force in my uncle's mind, that wasn't so bad. Then when I saw him again I was desperate and sleep-deprived and only had five minutes to make a decision. I needed his help and he said he just wanted a puppet. I was literally surrounded by literal puppets at the time, don't ask, and he asked for one. I didn't think he meant literally possessing me but, well, he did. And he broke the laptop he promised to help me get into anyway so he didn't even uphold his end of the deal! And he tried to burn your journal!"

"Wait, hold on," Ford said. "Why would he do that?"

"Because Bill's not your friend," Dipper said earnestly. "I know you think he is but he's not."

"I've known him for _years_ and he's never been anything but helpful," Ford protested.

"That's because he's using you," Dipper said. "He wanted to destroy the journal so I couldn't figure out how to stop him in time. He wants to use the portal to create a rift in the universe. He wants to use that rift to bring himself and his demon friends to our world and then take it over. And I don't even think he has a real plan for that, he just thinks it would be fun. He's…kind of like a frat boy, in a way. A demonic frat boy who has been around for trillions of years and has almost unlimited power."

"I don't believe this. I can't believe this."

"I thought you might not," Dipper said, looking sad. "But I need you to know anyway. I need to warn you. Maybe then, maybe even if you don't believe me, maybe things can work out better."

"Someone said that the world ended and then it got better. Your sister, maybe?" Ford asked rhetorically.

"We did defeat Bill," Dipper told him. "But it wasn't easy and we all got really hurt doing it. We nearly died! If we have to, we can leave the timeline as it is. But I'd rather it didn't come to that."

"So I just blindly open a portal to another dimension and cause all of this?" Ford asked skeptically. He didn't believe this. He didn't know why Dipper would say this if it wasn't true but he couldn't believe this. Not of Bill. Anyone else, perhaps, but Bill. _Bill_. No. It couldn't be. He was his muse!

"It's not that simple," Dipper said, shaking his head. "McGucket…Fiddleford. You two test the portal out. There's some sort of accident and he falls partially into the portal before you can save him. He ends up going mad, Grunkle Ford. He destroys his own memory trying to forget. He creates a cult that erases everyone's memory all the time whenever they see something weird. That's…not exactly the most practical stance to take here in Gravity Falls."

Ford just shook his head.

"After that, you confronted Bill. He admitted everything and you tried to shut it down. But then there was an accident with the portal and you were pulled into it."

Ford's blood ran cold. "I went through to the dimension that you say has monsters out to destroy us? That drove Fiddleford mad?"

Dipper nodded reluctantly. "I don't know what happened on the other side. You won't talk about it and that scares me more than anything that you could say. Or at least I hope that's the case. If it's some horror beyond my imagination…" He hugged himself. "Grunkle Stan didn't know about any of that. He just knew you were gone and he was going to bring you back."

A slightly unbalanced laugh escaped Ford then. "Stanley? He's going to figure out how to rebuild a portal to another dimension and bring me back? He didn't even graduate high school"

Dipper shrugged. "He's good at figuring out what he needs to know. He had some instructions and it took him thirty years. He didn't know he was playing into Bill's hands and creating that rift. He just knew he wanted to save you. And he did. And we tried to keep the rift safe but Bill was after it and there was only so long we could do it. We made a mistake and then we had to stop the world from ending." He smiled. "Not with a bang but with a boop-boop."

Ford shook his head again. "I don't know why you're saying all this."

"Yes, you do," Dipper said, looking suddenly wise beyond his years.

"Bill wouldn't do that to me," Ford said. "He wouldn't do that to the world. He's the most trustworthy being I've ever met."

"No one has ever wanted to hurt you more," Dipper argued. "Look, I know you don't want to face this and I'm sorry but you have to. It's the only way we can stop this and I-I don't want you to have to go through the portal again. I want to grow up even just knowing you exist. And I don't want to have to literally save the world before my bar mitzvah. Adventures are one thing but knowing that if you fail the whole world is destroyed?" He shook his head. "I don't expect you to just take my word for it. But please. Do something. I don't know what. Just… _please_."

"Dipper," Ford said helplessly.

Dipper's device beeped. "I've got to go."

Panic rose up in his skin. "You can't just leave me here!"

"I'm sorry," Dipper said. "I wish I could stay but my time's up. You won't be alone. You won't like what you'll see but you won't be alone. And remember! You can still change this! You're the only one who can!"

With that, Dipper vanished.

Despite what he said, Ford was alone.

Or, not quite alone, Stan was still sitting there. But, as Ford watched, he pulled himself to his feet and started to make his way back to his car, looking for all the world like nothing could possibly matter to him. It wasn't a good look on him.

"Well hey there," a voice from behind him said.

Ford spun around and was confronted by a strange, stooping man. He wasn't wearing any shoes and he had on nothing but a pair of dirty overalls and the kind of hat one might find on a scarecrow. His beard had a Band-Aid in it for some reason and it reached all the way to his ankles.

"Sorry," Ford said, his mind still spinning. This was completely the wrong thing to focus on but he was a scientist and a scientist was curious and he really did need to know. "But why do you have a Band-Aid on your beard?"

To his surprise, the man grinned at him. "Should have known you'd be the one person to point that out to me, Stanford. I'm pretty sure I just had it on my face and then my beard grew out and it somehow never fell off. Kind of strange, come to think of it. I reckon I really should take it off. That old thing is probably older than those kids." With that, he reached up and pulled the Band-Aid off before sticking it in his pocket. "Wouldn't want to litter, now would I? Remind me about that later."

"Do I…do I know you?" Ford asked uncertainly. He had known the others. Or at least he had some sort of future connection to them. Who was this man and why would he be sent to tell him about the future?

"I reckon you already know the answer to that, Stanford," the man said, his tone surprisingly gentle.

"I don't."

"You _do_ ," the man insisted.

Ford shook his head in sudden denial. "No."

"Keep saying that. It won't make it true. And I thought you were a scientist. A scientist never shies from the truth, no matter how nasty."

Ford swallowed hard. "Fiddleford?"

"Would you believe that you're the first one to call me that in-in years?"

Ford's legs buckled underneath him.

"Hey now," Fiddleford said, grabbing ahold of his sleeve. "Let's get you someplace warmer."


	4. Chapter 4

They were back in his lab. Back in the time and place it should be. Fiddleford's eyes kept darting to the place where they were planning to eventually build the portal.

"There's nothing there," Ford told him.

"I know that."

"My God, Fiddleford." What could he say? What was there to say? "What happened to you?"

"I got old," Fiddleford said simply. "You did, too, you know. Or you will? Tenses are confusing."

"I-I saw Stan. I take it you two are from around the same time?"

"I reckon you're right," Fiddleford agreed.

"He didn't age well," Ford said. "He really didn't. I'm not even sure how old he's supposed to be. Maybe…fifty-eight? Dipper said he was from 2012. You look like you're at least fifteen years older than that."

"Well, not everyone can be the model of aging," Fiddleford said indifferently.

"Stanley at least was homeless for part of that time to explain how he aged so poorly," Ford said.

Fiddleford laughed. "And you think I haven't been?"

No.

"Ah, I see I've shocked you," Fiddleford noted. "Surely that's not so hard to believe."

"Well…yes, actually. Yes that's almost impossible to believe. Even if our research project fell through, you're a smart man, Fiddleford. If nothing else you could get a job that's beneath you but pays the bills. You could provide the town with its first competent police force!"

"Ain't nobody going to listen to me," Fiddleford said sadly, tugging at his beard.

"But why not? What happened? Why wasn't I there for you?"

"I reckon you had problems of your own. I forgot about you, you know."

Even after everything that happened or would happen or he feared might happen, that still went straight through him. "W-what?"

"I had to," Fiddleford said. "For what was left of my sanity. Not that that worked out very well."

"I…Dipper said that Bill lied. Dipper said that you went through the portal. He said you went mad and erased everything from your own head."

Fiddleford shook his head. "I should have known that he wouldn't be able to wait and let me get to it. That kid really loves you, Stanford. So does Mabel and that other one. The other Stanford."

"What? You mean Stanley?"

"If that's his name," Fiddleford said.

"What happened to us?" Ford asked. He felt a little ridiculous asking that when clearly there were so many bigger problems going on. It was easy, before, to ignore or not think about any potential problems when he didn't have to see it. But he couldn't ignore how badly Stanley needed him – needed _something_ – when he watched him freezing on the snow unable to bring himself to even ask for help. He couldn't ignore that somehow or other the world spun wildly out of control when Fiddleford was right in front of him behaving for all the world like he belonged on the streets.

"Well you went to another dimension for thirty years and I married a raccoon."

Ford opened his mouth then closed it again. "Is that legal?"

"Gravity Falls is a very permissive town," Fiddleford said. "We had a bit of an unusual feller as our founder. Remind me to tell you about the eighth and a half president someday."

"Was that what did it? I love you and I can just…obviously if I'm in a portal we can't…but what happened?" Ford demanded.

Fiddleford looked away. "Stanford…"

"No, don't 'Stanford' me," Ford said firmly. "I've been put off all night by people who keep hinting at some mysterious dark future I've got ahead of me and how I'm the only one who can change it. But they wouldn't tell me anything more than some cryptic clues! Even if Dipper did break down and tell me in the end, the whole point is that _you're_ supposed to tell me. We're doing that Scrooge thing, right? Past, present, future. What happens to me? What happens to _us_?"

Fiddleford bowed his head. "You're right. I know you're right. But maybe I don't want to face it either."

"I'm sorry, Fiddleford."

Fiddleford's smile was painful. "If I could live the rest of my life without hearing that from you…Come on."

He held out his hand.

Ford didn't hesitate.

They were in the living room again. The door flung open and Fiddleford came hurrying through it, looking like a man in a waking nightmare. He looked the same as he had the last time Ford had seen him. His breath caught in his throat. How long did they have?

Fiddleford marched towards his room and Ford and the future version of Fiddleford followed silently. Fiddleford began to throw everything into a suitcase.

"This is where we end," Ford realized.

The future Fiddleford nodded. "It's not pretty."

"Fiddleford! Fiddleford, wait!" Stanford cried, running into the room after him. "Fiddleford, _please_!"

"I'm not sure that I have anything to say to you right now," Fiddleford said coldly.

"Look, I understand that what happened was a bit-"

"No you _don't_ understand," Fiddleford interrupted him. "That is the whole fucking point, Stanford."

"So _make_ me understand!" Stanford demanded. "You can't just tell me 'we need to shut down the portal' and then walk away when my first instinct is to say no! You have to give me a reason!"

"I think the fact that the fact that I asked you to isn't enough is pretty telling."

Stanford threw his hands up in the air. "That's not fair. You're asking me to give up my _dream_. The least you could do is tell me why."

"I think it's pretty obvious why," Fiddleford said bitingly. "I saw the other side of the portal. Whatever he told you isn't true. You need to stop this and you need to stop this right now."

Stanford hesitated.

Fiddleford closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He put down the armful of his possessions and moved in front of Stanford, placing his hand on his shoulder. "Stanford, please. This is me we're talking about. I'm not your brother. I'm not your father. I'm not anyone else who has hurt you over the years. I'm telling you that this portal could destroy us all. You know I'm not one to jump to conclusions like this. So _please_."

"Do something," Ford pleaded. "Don't just stand there. Do something!"

But of course neither of them could hear him and the future version of Fiddleford just watched impassively.

"I…I acknowledge that there is something very strange going on. I certainly never expected this and I can't explain. But Bill _has_ to have an explanation. He has to!"

Ford had to watch the moment that his boyfriend gave up on him. The very moment he uttered Bill's name, the light in Fiddleford's eyes died. And the worst part was, he had to watch it _twice_. Once now and once when he was the one who wouldn't listen.

"But…there _must_ be an explanation," Ford said weakly as Fiddleford yanked his hand away as if he'd been burned and resumed his packing.

"There is," the Fiddleford who could hear him said. "You just won't like it."

"I don't like anything about this."

"Come on," Stanford pleaded. "You're not even going to give me a chance?"

"I just gave you a second chance," Fiddleford replied. "And you chose Bill once again."

"This isn't a contest!"

"The hell it isn't," Fiddleford retorted. "I've been feeling like I've been losing you to him for a long time now. Maybe even before my wife left. But I've always tried to push it down, to tell myself I'm being irrational. Well not this time. I can't blind myself to the truth. Not anymore. Bill Cipher would destroy us all and you're too fucking in love him with to see it. You'll burn this whole world and you won't even see it until it's too late."

"I can't even ask him?" Stanford asked. "Surely you have to admit that-"

"And what good would that do?" Fiddleford demanded. "And I don't _have_ to do anything. Either Bill will admit the truth, in which case my word isn't enough, or he'll deny it and it'll be my word against his. And the fact that you have to go _ask_ him about all this makes it clear which one you're choosing."

"What did you see?" Stanford pleaded. "Can you at least tell me that?"

"Hell," Fiddleford said simply. "I saw hell. Pray that you never do."

"I can't," Stanford shook his head, clearly trying to think straight. "What kind of person makes someone choose between them and a friend?"

"Oh, don't you even turn this into me being controlling!" Fiddleford snapped. "I am perhaps the least controlling person in existence! I wasn't happy when you started consorting with a-a demonic Dorito but did I threaten to leave? Did I, in fact, do more than demand to know what was going on and express my concerns? Well, did I?"

"No," Stanford conceded. "But-"

"It's been happening more and more lately," Fiddleford said. "Ever since Christmas. You keep telling me that you'll be there and then half the time you aren't! And I always find you sleeping away."

"I'm not sleeping," Stanford protested. "I just-"

"I know. You're 'working.' Don't talk to me about work! I'm your goddamn research assistant!" Fiddleford's shoulders dropped suddenly. "Or at least I was."

"This isn't fair," Stanford whispered.

Fiddleford laughed harshly. "You want to talk about fair? I love you, Ford. I do. And I can't turn that off just because I can't stand to look at you right now. And however you might feel about me, I'm finally faced with conclusive proof of something I've suspected for quite some time. I love you more than you love me."

Stanford drew back as if he'd been slapped. "How can you even say that?"

"If it were you, I'd shut down the portal. No questions asked."

"But I'm not you," Stanford protested. "I'm…so what? You're just leaving. One fight and it's over?"

"It's not just a fight," Fiddleford said. "I'm not that dramatic. But I can't stay here, not after what happened. I can't help you destroy the world. I can't watch you try to make excuses for that monster. I always knew there was something off about him but I held my tongue, for your sake. Well I was wrong. I can't and you clearly can't so what's even the point?"

"But I love you."

Fiddleford closed his eyes and his shoulders started to shake. Stanford reached out for him but Fiddleford quickly took a step back. " _Don't_."

Stanford stood back, hand still outstretched as if he wanted to touch him but was respecting his request not to.

When Fiddleford finally opened his eyes, his eyes were brimming with tears. He actually smiled but there was no happiness in it. "Do I have to explain to you something that I told my son the day his mother decided that she was leaving? Just because two people love each other doesn't always mean that they're right for each other. Sometimes you just have to go your separate ways."

"But I don't want to go."

"You don't have to," Fiddleford said. "I am."

"I don't want you to."

"Destroy the portal," Fiddleford countered.

Stanford said nothing.

Fiddleford sighed. "I hope you don't kill us all." With that, he snapped his suitcase shut and pushed past Stanford to the door.

Stanford didn't stop him. He just slowly walked towards the bed and sat down on it, completely unmoving.

Ford just focused on his breathing. In and out, in and out. He wanted to speak, wanted to explain and apologize and ask so many questions. But he couldn't. There was something painful in his throat that felt like it might escape through his tears if he wasn't careful. But what good would that do? It wouldn't change anything and he just didn't think he could bare it if Fiddleford saw him like that now.

Fiddleford looked calmly at him, making no sign of being impatient.

Finally, Ford managed to say, "I need to know."

"I think you already do," Fiddleford said quietly.

"Please, I need to _know_ ," Ford said. "How could that have happened? Is that really it? All those years of friendship and then…however long we've had…and one portal accident and we're through?"

"I couldn't stay," Fiddleford said. "Was it a little sudden? Perhaps. I certainly had no thoughts of leaving before. But I couldn't stay. And then I saw it and I wasn't in my right mind. I don't know if I was ever in my right mind again."

"I couldn't just destroy it. Not without trying to get more information," Ford said helplessly, guilt flooding him but it was true and was it even wrong? Was it responsible to destroy his life's work, something he had poured everything he had into and that could potentially help so many, on the say-so of someone who had just admitted to not being in his right mind?

"I know," Fiddleford said, not unkindly. "I knew it then. That's why I was leaving. I was sick of trying to convince you of things I knew you'd never be convinced of. I didn't want to wait until Bill told you you couldn't trust him before you'd believe it."

"You wouldn't even tell me what you saw," Ford said helplessly.

"No and I won't."

"Why not?"

"You saw the other side of the portal," Fiddleford said. "Or you will. Or you won't. We are trying to change that, after all. You'll understand then. Or you won't. We don't want that. But then maybe I won't understand either. That does sound like a good idea."

Ford closed his eyes and just breathed.

"But…I don't know if this will make it better or not but it might not have mattered if you had immediately done as I'd asked," Fiddleford said slowly.

Ford's eyes snapped open. "What do you mean by that?"

"Only that it might have been too late. I could never quite forget the feeling that that inspired in me, even long after the actual memories were wiped away. Even if I had known that the portal was gone, as long as Bill was still out there…and maybe even after that…it might not have mattered, in the end."

Ford let out a choked laugh. "So we were doomed either way? That's not exactly what I want to hear."

Fiddleford shrugged. "It is what it is."

"Show me what happened."

Fiddleford sighed and then they were watching Ford racing through the mindscape and confronting Bill. Bill admitting it so easily was the worst part. He had spent literal years pretending to be the best friend that Ford had ever had. In some ways a replacement for Stanley, even. And then the minute Ford caught him in a lie he had laughed and he had mocked him and told him all about his plan to destroy the world. Fiddleford was right and he hadn't been able to accept that. Stan and Mabel and Dipper were all right. Bill was using him and he was going to destroy the world. And even if they had somehow fixed it that didn't change the fact that it had been destroyed in the first place in large part because he had been too stupid to see that he once more being used. Why should he have expected anything else? That's all it had ever been, his whole life. Everyone used him.

Everyone except Fiddleford.

And look where that had gotten the two of them.

He wouldn't say that his heart had broken learning the truth about Bill but he could feel that _something_ had.

Fiddleford had nothing to say as they watched that play out. And when he took Ford's arm to transport them he could feel that it was trembling.

Stanford slid into a booth across from Fiddleford at the diner. Everyone in the diner had turned to stare at him the moment he came in and hadn't stopped but he didn't seem to care. At least four years in Gravity Falls and no one there knew anything about him except his name.

"I have nothing to say to you," Fiddleford told him, not looking up from his breakfast.

"Well I have something to say to you."

"Please, Ford, don't make a scene," Fiddleford requested.

"I'm not here to make a scene!" Stanford said, a little louder than he intended to. He winced. "Sorry. I'm not here to make a scene."

"Then what are you here to do?" Fiddleford asked. "Keep in mind that I don't really care and that I don't want to talk to you."

Stanford's jaw worked. "I know that. And I'm sorry."

"Sorry for bothering me when I clearly wish to be left alone or sorry that you finally know that I was right?"

Stanford winced. "Th-The first one."

"How good of Bill to finally confirm it for us," Fiddleford said politely. "There was so much confusion over that, after all."

"Don't."

"Don't what?" Fiddleford asked.

"You know what."

"Let's save ourselves some time and pretend that I don't," Fiddleford said.

"I'm sorry. I should have listened to you. I should have listened to you even before last week. I should have told you the truth from the beginning. You were clearly seeing clearer than I was and maybe we could have avoided this whole mess if I had."

"I do suppose you're right," Fiddleford said mildly.

"There you go again!"

"There you fail to explain again."

"Stop treating me like I'm a stranger," Stanford told him.

"How should I be treating you, then?" Fiddleford asked. "I am trying to be polite in the face of what some might call harassment. How does one treat someone they had previously been, uh, very close to who has betrayed them and chosen an avatar of Satan himself instead?"

"I mean, I don't think he's actually an avatar of Satan," Stanford said. "Or even the Christian view of Satan which is a bit more evil than the Jewish version."

Finally, Fiddleford met his eyes. "I swear to God, Ford, if you are _still_ defending him."

"I'm not!" Stanford quickly said. "I just…I don't know. I was wrong. And I'm sorry."

"And that's very nice but that changes nothing."

"How can it change nothing?" Stanford demanded.

"I asked you to believe me then and you wouldn't. Why would coming back a week later, having Bill confirm it for you, be any better?" Fiddleford asked. "I am done."

"I need help," Stanford said. "I can't fight him on my own."

"Try going to someone you actually trust," Fiddleford advised. "Assuming you have anyone other than the one who wants to destroy the world."

"You can't just ignore the end of the world!"

"I can't very well do anything about it, either," Fiddleford said.

"But you can! You can come with me and-"

"But I can't, you see," Fiddleford said.

That drew Stanford up short. "Why not?"

"I just can't."

"That's no answer!" Stanford protested.

"I just can't," Fiddleford said simply. "I'm sorry but I can't." He laughed unhappily. "And now here I am apologizing to you. The effect you have on me."

"At least tell me what you saw," Stanford begged. "I need to know what I'm up against!"

Fiddleford smiled bitterly. "I would if I could."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Stanford asked, his hands twitching. "You can't just not tell me! I know it's hard to talk about but if you won't help me at least you owe me this. You owe the world this. Hell, you owe yourself this if you expect not to get yourself killed."

"I can't."

"That's not good enough!"

"No, Stanford, you don't understand. I literally can't," Fiddleford said miserably.

Stanford cocked his head curiously. "And just what do you mean by that?"

"I don't remember what happened."

"You can't just…how do you not _remember_ what happened?" Stanford demanded. "Were you in shock or something? Did you disassociate? You can't just not remember something that upsetting!"

"Except I can," Fiddleford said.

"Tell me."

"I couldn't stand remembering so I…I invented something. And now I don't."

Stanford looked as horrified as Ford felt. It made sense that their reactions would be the same. "You-you erased your own memory?"

"Don't look at me like that," Fiddleford said, jamming a finger in his face. "You don't know!"

"You wouldn't tell me!"

"It doesn't matter," Fiddleford said, turning his attention back to his breakfast. "You should go."

Ford turned towards the other Fiddleford. "How could you?"

"I don't know," Fiddleford said quietly.

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"It was a long time ago," Fiddleford said. "I forgot everything. I got most of it back, thanks to those kids, but I never did quite recover everything. Everything I've seen, everything I can no longer forget…I saw the end of times. I survived it. I can't quite figure how I didn't think I'd survive whatever I saw then. But, though you can be as angry as you want, it's not as though I didn't pay for it."

That killed his anger. "No. I don't suppose you didn't."

Fiddleford held out his hand again and, bracing himself, Ford took it.

"This one may be difficult," Fiddleford warned. "But I want you to know what you may be up against, even should you succeed in protecting yourself. Protecting all of us."

"And those last couple _weren't_?"

"This is different."

Stanford was sitting in his armchair, all alone. There was a crossbow across his lap.

"Is he expecting something?" Ford asked curiously.

"Well, well, well, Sixer," Stanford said, smirking. Except now he had yellow eyes. "And what are we up to today?"

Ford started. "Bill?"

He hadn't thought…he hadn't had time to think…it had been mere minutes since he'd learned that Bill was not to be trusted. It hadn't occurred to him that just because he had cut ties with Bill that that didn't mean that Bill would have to stay out of his mind. He would no longer be welcome, and before Ford had always invited him in, but to think that he could still come after him…

The yellow eyes faded and Stanford's hands tightened on his crossbow. "Don't call me that!"

"Still so caught up in trivialities," Bill mocked. "The fate of the world at stake, you've betrayed and destroyed the only man who could stand to be by your side, and all you want to talk about is a nickname."

"That's not-!"

"There's no need to pretend with me, Sixer," Bill interrupted. "No point, really, either. I know every inch of you. I know you far better than you know yourself. Far better than you're willing to admit to, at least. And it's not surprising. If I were you, I'd want to hide, as well."

Stanford shook his head. "Go away, go away, go away…"

"Is that anyway to talk to an old friend?"

"You're not my friend!"

Bill laughed harshly. "Oh, don't be like that. We both know I'm the only one you've got left. And while I concede, I might not be exactly what you want right now, I think we both know whose fault it is that you don't have anyone else."

"I don't have _you_ ," Stanford snapped.

"Oh, fear not, Fordsy. You will _always_ have me. From now until the end of time, remember?"

It was bizarre watching Stanford sitting there, eyes flashing, arguing with himself. Ford knew what was going on but he still couldn't shake the feeling he was watching madness play out.

"I want you out!"

"Yes, I did rather pick up on that," Bill said, sounding slightly bored. "But a deal's a deal, IQ. You mortals never do seem to think anything through. Don't say 'from now until the end of time' unless you're prepared to live up to that. I mean, it's not even that long for you. A human is lucky to live to see one hundred. I have literally all of time to be held to such things. For a genius, you really don't think a lot through, do you?"

Stanford didn't say anything, just closed his eyes and clenched his fists.

Bill stood up and set the crossbow down on the table next to him. "Let's get this out of the way. We wouldn't want to accidentally hurt someone, would we?" He laughed hysterically.

"As if you would shy away from hurting someone."

"Pain, while hilarious, is best applied deliberately," Bill lectured. "I don't hold with any of this accidental injury nonsense. If I want to shoot out your eye then I will do it and not because I wasn't paying enough attention to your silly little crossbow."

"What are you doing?" Stanford demanded.

"Now, now, that would be telling. You'll see in a moment. Don't be so impatient."

"I'm warning you, Bill-"

Bill interrupted with another laugh as he headed into the kitchen. "Oh, that is too cute! It thinks it can stop me. We both know you can't. You signed your body over to me a long time ago and we both know that I'm stronger than you are. I could just keep control for the rest of your miserable life if I wanted to."

"Then why don't you?" Stanford ground out.

"Because in a lot of ways you really are my favorite puppet," Bill said, picking up the longest, sharpest knife that Ford owned and running it delicately across his throat.

"Your favorite?" Stanford scoffed. "What do you do to those you don't pretend to like?"

"I usually kill them," Bill said. "Sometimes I turn them to stone and create a throne out of them. I would never do that to you, though."

"No?"

"No, for you I'm thinking…gold," Bill said. "Now hold still. I wouldn't want to hit anything I don't mean to. You really have to be careful with these fleshy meat suits and that's never really been something I'm good at."

He abruptly stabbed Stanford in the leg and in the shoulder then let Stanford scream in pain but otherwise not move. He started whistling as he began to rinse the blood off.

"Wouldn't want it to get rusty," Bill explained. "One must always have the proper respect for one's tools."

He placed the knife on the other side of the sink and, still dripping blood everywhere, made his way to the stairs.

"I have to say, I do approve of the new direction our relationship has taken," Bill said as he climbed to the top of it. He put his hands on the rails and swung forward and backwards.

"Relationship?" Stanford repeated. "What relationship? You're a monster."

"Monsters can have relationships, too," Bill said. "Monster is just another word for freak and you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Sixer? The boy with the six fingers. The boy who's only good for being used. The boy who isn't even good enough to make them stay. The boy who let me into this world."

Stanford flinched. "I'm not-"

"Oh, but you are! How interesting. Everything that has gone wrong, everything that has happened to you and that you have done and you're still so sensitive. Crampelter. That name still has power over you. But then, I guess he was the first one to teach you that you're a freak."

"I'm not a freak!" But Stanford didn't sound sure.

"You are," Bill insisted. "You know you are. I don't mind. Anyone without at least a little bit of monster inside of them never could have brought your world to the brink."

"I'm going to stop you," Stanford vowed.

Bill laughed. "Is that so? Tell me, Stanford, how do you intend to do that? You can't even save yourself."

"I'll find a way."

"Sure. But as I was saying, I approve of this new direction our relationship has taken," Bill said again. "Pain, as you know, is a subject I've always found just fascinating. Just hilarious, too! I couldn't really experiment before. You might have thought something was up. Then again, knowing you, you might have been so desperate for approval you wouldn't have even noticed! But now I can explore all of this to my heart's content!"

There was fear in Stanford's voice for the first time. "What are you doing to do? You already-"

"Whoops!" Bill interrupted, throwing himself down the stairs. He laughed as he hit every step. "Well, that was fun! We'll have to do this again sometime!"

With that, he seemed to withdraw, leaving Stanford a crumpled and unmoving heap on the floor.

"Is he…Am I…" He couldn't say it. But hadn't Dipper said they knew each other?

"You're not dead," Fiddleford told him. "Bill still needs you."

"D-does that kind of thing happen a lot?" Ford said.

"I don't know," Fiddleford said. "Probably. It's not as though you could stop him."

Ford shook his head. "I can't…I can't…"

"It's alright to be freaked out," Fiddleford said. "I don't know how you managed to keep any of your sanity after that. It took less than that to drive me to, well, this."

"There has to be something I can do," Ford said. "I can't live like this."

And, more to the point, before he knew what Bill was then he was safe from overt acts of aggression like that. Now that he knew, though, he wasn't going to be able to hide it for very long. Soon, Bill would have no reason not to do this to him. He might even have a better reason as the portal was not yet built.

"You won't have to," Fiddleford said. "Not for long."

Hope, sharp and desperate, seized at him then. "What do you mean? Is there something I can do to stop Bill?"

"You end up inserting a metal plate into your head. Titanium, I believe. Seems a little drastic but you didn't have time to get picky and it seems to have worked out alright. He can still visit you in your dreams, from what I understand, but he can no longer take control of your body despite your deal," Fiddleford explained.

Ford nodded. "Titanium? Yes, yes. I can see that…"

"I don't see the need to beat a dead horse," Fiddleford said. "You know what Bill has in store for you once he finds out that you know. Whatever else you choose to do, you will need to move quickly to stop him. With myself and little Tate in the house…I know it's Christmas but I wouldn't go to sleep again before you had put that plate in."

"Trust me, I have no plans of doing so."

Fiddleford made a sound that could almost have been a laugh.

"What?"

"It's been awhile since you asked me to trust you," Fiddleford replied simply. "Been even longer since I thought I could."

Ford didn't know what to say to that. He wanted to apologize but most of it hadn't even happened yet. Technically he had little to apologize _for_ and Fiddleford had already made it clear that he didn't want any more apologies anyway. Apologies were a little useless, weren't they? Too little, too late, nothing was going to change by them.

Fiddleford held out his hand and Ford took it.

Fiddleford, the younger wilder-looking one, was waiting for him when he opened the door.

Stanford's hold on his groceries slipped but he managed to catch them before he fell. He set them on the ground beside him and took a step to the side.

Fiddleford had some sort of gun trained on him the entire time.

"What's going on, Fiddleford?" Stanford asked slowly, calmly. There was a trapped, panicked look in his eyes but other than that he seemed perfectly at ease. "Why do you have a gun?"

"This isn't a gun," Fiddleford told him.

"You're here to kill me?" Ford demanded, turning to the one who could see him.

"I'm not," Fiddleford said. "This gun doesn't kill."

"Then what does it do?"

The older Fiddleford shook his head. "Just watch."

"It looks like a gun. I-I know that we've had some disagreements lately-" Stanford started to say, rubbing at the bags under his eyes.

"Disagreements?" Fiddleford interrupted. "Is that what you'd call them, Ford? Really?"

"Well I wouldn't call them agreements," Stanford said. "But it's just a word. There's no need to do anything hasty."

"Hasty," Fiddleford repeated. "You think this is hasty?"

"I think you have some sort of weapon pointed at me."

"I've thought a lot about this. It first occurred to me to do this months ago but I didn't. I waited. I didn't want to, you see. I still don't." The arm holding the gun shook slightly.

"Then don't!"

"I don't have a choice!" Fiddleford cried.

"Of course you do. Nobody is making you do anything. No matter what happened, no matter what you might think, there's nobody here but me and you. And, whatever you decide to do, know that you're the one in control right now. Whatever happens next is on you."

"No, it's on you. You and Bill," Fiddleford spat.

"You remember Bill?" Stanford asked curiously.

"Not for much longer, I don't think. Or you, either. But I couldn't just forget. Not while we have a crisis."

Stanford's body slumped in what might have been relief. "That's what I've been trying to tell you. Listen, I found a way to-"

"I don't think you understand," Fiddleford interrupted. "You're not part of the solution, Stanford. You're part of the problem."

"I…what?" Stanford asked, taken aback.

"You're the one who summoned Bill here in the first place. You're the one who worked with him on that portal. I'm the one who trusted you and that was my mistake and I'm rectifying it now. You're the one who is going to bring about the end of the world."

"No, that's Bill, not me!"

"Is there even a difference?" Fiddleford asked cynically.

Stanford flinched. "How-how can you even say that?"

"I know what I need to do," Fiddleford said quietly. "I need to destroy that portal so Bill can never use it to come here. I told you I've found a way to make myself forget, right? I need to make you forget all of this, too. And then I need to forget. And if that's not enough to stop Bill then at least it will slow him down. He'll have to find new pawns. Maybe they'll be smarter than we were."

Stanford's eyes widened in horror. "N-no! No! You can't!"

"It's a kindness, really," Fiddleford told him. "I can see the guilt you carry with you. As if guilt were enough to absolve you. You'll forget all the ways you have destroyed us."

"I don't want this!" Stanford shouted, unable to look away from the gun.

"That can't matter. I'm sorry but it can't. It's not a bad thing, though. Think of all the brilliant things you can go on to do with this behind you. I'm saving you, even if you can't see it."

" _Please_ , Fiddleford! That wouldn't be enough! You don't understand!"

"I think you're the one who doesn't understand," Fiddleford said. "You never did." He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

Stanford turned to run but the light hit him before he could. He blinked rapidly. "I…what?"

"Did it work?" Fiddleford asked. "No, foolish to ask, you wouldn't know, would you?"

"You said you were going to make me forget about Bill and about the portal," Stanford said slowly.

Suspicion entered Fiddleford's eyes. "Yes…"

"I don't think I did, though," Stanford said, scratching his forehead in confusion.

Fiddleford shot him again. And again.

"Fiddleford-" Stanford started to say.

Fiddleford dropped the gun. "What are you?"

Ford turned to the other Fiddleford. "I don't understand."

"That metal plate in your head is good for more than keeping Bill out," Fiddleford explained.

"How could you do that to me?" Ford demanded. "Even if it didn't work, how could you try?"

"I didn't understand," Fiddleford said. "I forgot a lot and there's more than I just never knew. Had I been able to dismantle the portal and burn your journals-"

In some strange way, that horrified Ford more than anything else he had seen that night. "B-burn the journals?"

Fiddleford smiled wanly. "See, I knew you'd react like that. We really do need to talk about your priorities, Stanford. Especially since…well, it doesn't matter. Had I succeeded in my plan I might have stopped Bill. Or at least made him someone else's problem. Maybe they'd have done better than we did. But, then again, maybe he'd have actually managed to destroy the world and keep it like that. Who can say? But that time is past for me. It's something you will need to consider."

"How am I even functioning like that?" Ford demanded. "I look like I'm on the verge of just completely snapping and setting fire to the town."

"That's one way of stopping Bill," Fiddleford remarked. "Can't say as I've never tried that although I think I forgot why. Dang rain."

"I can't go on like that forever," Ford said.

"Well…you don't," Fiddleford said. "You need help and you know it. So you send for the last person that you think that you can trust."

Ford frowned, drawing a blank. "But who? I've ruined things with you and you just tried to erase my memory. Who else is there?"

"Who would you send for when you had no one else?" Fiddleford pressed.

"I can't really see my parents taking me seriously," Ford said. "And Shermie has a family. This is dangerous and I don't want to drag him into it."

"So who does that leave?" Fiddleford asked again.

Ford's frown deepened. "No. It can't be."

"He will always come when you call, no matter how bad it gets or how tempted he is to just leave it be," Fiddleford said. "Take that for what it's worth."

"I never said there was a problem with him not being there," Ford said, not really wanting to get into that on top of everything else.

Ford saw Stanley, in trouble with some kind of shady character, receiving a postcard asking him to come. Ford wondered about that. If he had his address why didn't he have his number? Why did he send a postcard, which must surely take longer, rather than calling? Phone calls could be listened in on but postcards didn't even have envelopes. Surely he could ask him to come without seeming suspicious if most of it needed to be explained in person.

He saw Stan arriving in Gravity Falls, clearly looking for a chance to reconnect after all this time. He saw himself, his paranoia worse than ever (and he didn't want to think about what could have caused that), pointing a crossbow at his brother and shouting something about eye theft. He saw himself not having the mental energy to even think about the reunion that was all Stanley wanted. He asked Stanley to take one of his journals and go. Stan hadn't come all that way for that and that set him off and soon the two of them were digging at wounds best left undisturbed. Stan almost took a lighter to his journal and Stanford actually tackled him. Somehow or other Stan was branded and Ford went through the portal.

He had known it was going to happen. Well, not the branded part which he was sure he'd feel horrible about once he stopped to catch his breath, but the portal part. Dipper had warned him what felt like a lifetime ago now. But hearing about it and seeing it were two very different things. He had looked so scared. They both had. Whatever was on that portal had driven Fiddleford mad and Ford was to be trapped there for thirty years. And Stanley was so desperate to bring him back. He couldn't lose Ford again, he just got him back? That wasn't exactly what Ford would call the maybe twenty minutes they spent together.

He watched Stan discover the warnings about the portal. He watched him pace up and down for hours before deciding to try and activate it anyway. He watched him reach the end of journal one and frantically tear the house apart looking for the second one. He watched him forced to concede defeat and head into town. He watched Stan effortlessly make more of a connection with the townspeople just standing in line to buy bread than Ford had in the more than three years he'd been in Gravity Falls. He watched people who he had shared a town with for years mistake him too-easily for his ten-fingered twin who had a mullet. Maybe he should get out more. He watched as Stan's poverty drove him to turning Ford's house into one of those fake supernatural tourist traps that had always felt like they were killing a piece of his soul. He saw Stan going down by the portal again and again and again trying to save him even though he surely must have some idea of what that could do. He watched him trying even though without at least one more journal (how many were there?) he couldn't hope to succeed. He wouldn't think he could succeed either way if Dipper hadn't assured him that he had.

"He has to know that this will destroy the world," he said.

"I don't know that Stan is the type to really believe in world-destroying, even with everything else he's seen," Fiddleford said.

"That's no excuse. I warned him."

"Your last words to him were also begging him to save you," Fiddleford said. "You threw him the book. It's a bit of a mixed message, isn't it? And I guess he chose you over the world. Kind of sweet, isn't it?"

"No," Ford said flatly. "It's not."

Fiddleford sighed. "Should have known you'd be unsentimental."

"Sentimentality is not synonymous with stupidity," Ford insisted. "Destroying the world is not acceptable. At all. There is literally nothing that would make that acceptable. And there is no ending where I can be saved and the world is not. If I'm brought back and the world is destroyed then I die, too, and I'm sure I could have found a way to die just fine on my own if that was what I was looking for. And what about the kids? What about anyone else he knows and cares about?"

Fiddleford shrugged. "I guess he thought it was worth it."

"And that is not okay!" Ford exclaimed. "We are going to need to talk about that."

"In thirty-odd years when he brings you back?" Fiddleford asked. "Or do you intend to reach out sooner?"

Ford pointedly looked away.

Then he saw Fiddleford again. He didn't seem that much different than he did right now. It was spring now and Stan had just finished nailing 'Murder Hut' to the roof of his house.

Ford took a moment to try and deal with the shame of having his own house become one of those fraudulent tourist traps he'd always despised.

"Stanford?" Fiddleford asked, looking unaccountably nervous. "Stanford Pines?"

"Huh?" Stan asked, turning around to see him. "Oh, uh, yes. That is me. Absolutely. Stanford Pines. Yep. Definitely me."

Ford brought his hand up to his forehead. "Is he even kidding me?"

"I don't think so, no."

"How did he convince everyone he was me? He's so _bad_ at it," Ford complained.

Fiddleford shrugged. "It's not as if anyone else actually knew all that much about you. What are they supposed to think? They just thought he was eccentric."

"You know me, don't you?" the other Fiddleford asked hopefully.

Stan stepped closer and squinted at him. "Oh, yeah, aren't you, uh, that old crackpot guy? The one they found at the museum? McGacket or something like that."

Fiddleford drooped. "McGucket. Fiddleford McGucket."

Stan nodded. "Right, right. Uh, I'm sorry about all of that. Whatever that was. Is there something I can do for you?"

"You don't…you don't remember me?" Fiddleford asked, looking like he was on the verge of tears.

"Look pal, I've never seen you before in my life," Stan said. "I, uh, I'm sorry if that's not what you want to hear but it's true."

"But I could have sworn…" Fiddleford turned to go.

"Wait!" Stan called out, looking almost surprised as he did so.

"What?" Fiddleford asked.

"Why did you think that I knew you, anyway? What were you hoping to find?" Stan asked.

"I-I don't know," Fiddleford admitted.

"Come on, you must have more to go on than that!" Stan said. "Or are you just interviewing everyone in town?"

Fiddleford shook his head. "I mean, you must've read the article, right? You know what happened?"

"I don't think anyone knows what happened," Stan said.

"Well the basics, at least. I don't got no memory," Fiddleford said. "But I thought…I could have sworn…someone said the name Stanford Pines and I thought to myself 'I know him.' First thing I recognized since…well, it feels like ever! Even my own reflection looks like a stranger. Some days I'm half convinced it's not even me at all but some other feller. I reckon I should be a bit more worried about that than I am. But it's hard to worry when you don't even know why."

The look on Stan's face was a curious mixture of hopeful and wary. "And you, uh, you don't know anything else about me except that you feel like you know me?"

"Not a thing," Fiddleford admitted, shaking his head. "Except…perhaps…"

Stan leaned forward eagerly. "Yes?"

"Triangles, I think," Fiddleford said. "I remember triangles."

Stan laughed. "Oh, I've got triangles up the wazoo in there! I really should think about redecorating or something. It's kind of weird."

Fiddleford suddenly shot out and grabbed Stan's arm. "Hey! What's the big idea?"

"Don't trust the triangles," Fiddleford whispered intently. "They are not what they seem!"

Stan yanked his arm away. "Yeah, yeah, don't trust the triangles. Look, I wish I could help you. I really do. But I don't have any of the answers you're looking for."

Fiddleford sighed and turned away. "It's alright. I don't know why I thought you might."

"How can he do that?" Ford demanded. "How can he just let him go like that?"

"He's not wrong," the Fiddleford standing beside him said. "He really doesn't know anything that can help. Even if he admitted to not being you, and he didn't know me from Adam then, that wouldn't give me answers."

"I don't understand, though," Ford said. "How did it come to this? How did you end up all…all..."

"All," Fiddleford repeated. "Well. Turns out that memory gun is mighty addictive. Turns out you can only use it on yourself so many times. Turns out sooner or later you can't remember nothing and then the gun don't work on you no more. Turns out the more you take, the bigger the toll on your body. It's pretty simple."

"I can't let that happen to you," Ford said. "I can't."

"Then don't," Fiddleford said. "I'm not saying it will be easy but we both know what will happen to me if left to my own devices."

"I'm sorry."

"Hush. What did I tell you about saying that to me?" Fiddleford asked. "When you and I met again I thought you'd never _stop_ saying it. I almost don't want to show you the next part."

"The next part?"

"Well, I suppose it's not the _next_ part. But it's coming up."

They were in a graveyard and it looked like it was going to rain.

There were a decent amount of mourners. He saw Stan and his parents and Shermie's family right up front.

"Is that…am I at my own funeral?" Ford asked, confused. "I'm not dead. I know I'm not dead. _Stan_ knows I'm not dead. But I am gone for thirty years and if he doesn't find the other journal anytime soon he might not ever expect to get me back no matter what he wants. Did he just go around telling people that I was dead?"

"Not…exactly," Fiddleford said slowly.

"What do you mean by that?" Ford asked.

"I am glad to finally see you," Shermie said. "You don't live as far away as all that, Ford. I wish it could have been for literally any other reason but I am glad of that."

Wait.

"I'm sorry," Stan said. "I just got caught up in-in everything and I forgot what's important. Some wake-up call, huh?"

What.

"No," Ford said. "NO!"

"I'm afraid it is," Fiddleford said gently.

"No, he does not just get to come in here and knock me into a portal and take over my house and turn it into some-some freak show and then steal my name while he convinces everyone else that he's the one whose dead. They all get to mourn _him_ while he's living it up as me! No one even knows what happened to me!"

"Did you expect him to tell them?" Fiddleford asked mildly.

"About the portal? Maybe not but if he's faking anyone's death he could at least fake mine!"

"I'm sure he had his reasons."

Ford laughed harshly. "So am I! He had a pretty extensive criminal background last time I checked. This is the only way he'll ever be safe."

"Do you begrudge him that?" Fiddleford asked.

"When it's at the cost of my life? Yes!"

"Whether he took your name or not, it wouldn't change your situation," Fiddleford pointed out.

"He is literally stealing my identity," Ford said flatly. "And he doesn't get to say it's for my sake. He could have found another way."

"He's trying to save you."

"He's convincing my own family that he's me!"

"Would he have been allowed to come back otherwise?" Fiddleford asked. "He never did make that million. Or rather, he never did hang onto it. He's very good at what he does but saving you took a lot of money."

"Shermie would have welcomed him back. Mom would have welcomed him back. And if Dad didn't want him then it's not like he can kick him out of the state," Ford said dismissively. "He's not a scared seventeen-year-old boy anymore."

"When looking at your father, I wouldn't be surprised if he was," Fiddleford said. "We don't always get past these things. And while all of that is true, did Stan ever know it?"

"They did say that they had trouble getting in contact with him," Ford was forced to admit. "But they deserve to know. _I_ deserve for them to know."

"What does it say that you contacted them so rarely that even they bought it? Maybe he thought you wouldn't mind. It's not like you ever reached out to them when you were there to be reached out to."

Ford narrowed his eyes. "Of course I care! I've just been busy. And apparently after this I have an apocalypse to worry about!"

"The term is 'Weirdmageddon'," Fiddleford corrected.

"I…what?" Ford shook his head. "Whose side are you even on?"

"I'm not excusing him. He shouldn't have done what he did and it was a very selfish act. But he's not here to defend himself and he wasn't thinking of it like that. Besides, all you have to do to stop him is change things."

Ford laughed bitterly. "All I have to do, huh?"

His mother had pulled Stan off to the side and, curious, Ford moved closer.

"I gave birth to you and your brother, you know," she told him solemnly.

"Yeah, Ma, I know," Stan said.

"I wasn't expecting twins. I had the one baby and had just time enough to wonder about the six fingers before the contractions started up again," she said. "I never expected two."

"I know," Stan said again.

"And I raised my two boys every day for seventeen years," she continued, undaunted. "Then I lost the one and it wasn't too long before I lost the other. It was just too hard, I guess, to be there with all the ghosts. And then there were those stupid arguments about money, as if that could ever be worth losing another son."

"You-you haven't lost me, Ma," Stan tried to assure her, looking like he didn't know what else to say.

"You never called."

"I'm sorry. I did what I could."

"I don't know that I believe that," she said. "But then Ford never called either."

"I'm sure he had stuff going on, too," Stan said. "I don't think either one of us were trying to hurt you."

She smiled sadly at him. "See, you didn't even realize it, did you?"

He frowned at her. "Realize what?"

"I told you that Ford didn't call either."

He froze. "I-"

"It's okay, Stanley," she said. "I'm glad you're here and not six feet under."

Stanley clasped his hands together. He was wearing gloves with six fingers. "I-I don't know what to say."

She pulled off one of his gloves. Five fingers.

"Start by telling me why you're faking your own death. Start by telling me where Ford is. He's not…was he the one in the car crash?"

Stan sighed. "It's a long story. You really don't want to get involved in this."

"Forgive me but I think I rather do."

"I got a postcard from Ford maybe three months ago. He said he needed some help. He was working on some weird portal thing. There was an-an accident. He…he's not dead, Ma. At least I don't think so. But I don't know how to bring him back to this dimension. I'm _trying_ but I really don't understand any of this."

"I don't understand," his mother said. "Are you saying Ford's trapped in some other universe or something?"

"As far as I know," Stan said. "I don't know if the trip killed him or if he died there or if I can still save him. But I have to believe that I can save him."

"Why not tell us?" she asked.

"Tell you what? That all this sci-fi nerd junk is real?" Stan demanded. "I don' t believe it myself half the time and I watched it happen!"

"Why kill yourself?"

Stan smiled darkly. "I'm a wanted man, Ma. I can't stay in one place for too long and I can't be chased off from Gravity Falls. I need to try and save him and I can't do that if I always have to watch my back."

She nodded at the rest of their family. "I don't pretend to understand this. I don't know if I believe any of this. But if you say that Stanford is in trouble and you need to do this to save him and protect yourself then I'm choosing to trust you."

The look Stan gave her almost broke Ford's heart and he wasn't even the one it was directed at. "Ma…"

"I failed you once, all those years ago. I'm not going to do it again."

Stan shook his head in denial. "It wasn't your fault, Ma. That was all Dad."

"I should've done something," she said stubbornly. "I've regretted it every day of my life since then. So go. Do this. Be Ford if you have to. But they deserve to know."

"I can't tell them," Stan said immediately.

"Why not? You told me."

Stan took his glove back and carefully put it on. "I wouldn't exactly call this 'telling'. And I can't. Isaac is way too young to keep a secret. I barely know Rachel. After ten years, I'm not sure I even know Shermie. You're the only one I bothered calling and even that wasn't all that much. And I certainly don't trust Dad. The more people who know, the more people can ruin this. Maybe they deserve to know but I can't take any chances. This is risky enough and hopeless enough as it is."

Slowly, his mother nodded.

Stan looked satisfied. "Listen, Ma, I've got to-"

"And what about what Ford deserves?"

He paused. "What?"

"What about what your brother deserves?" she asked again. "Don't you think he deserves more than to have everyone think that you're him for however long that has to be? If the world must, does his family have to, too? Doesn't he deserve someone to know what happened to him?"

" _You_ know," Stan said. "I know. That has to be enough."

"It's not. I think you know that."

Stan sighed, looking suddenly much older than he really was. How old was that? Thirty, perhaps? "Ford deserves to be rescued. He deserves to come home. And I'm going to do whatever it takes to make that happen. And if he hates me because of it or because of…other stuff then I'll just have to live with that. But I have to do this. Please try and understand that, even if you don't agree."

"Oh, I do understand," his mother said. "How could I not? I'm his mother."

Those weren't tears in Ford's eyes. "Mother…"

"At least one member of your family knows the truth."

"Is she even alive by the time I get back?" Ford asked. "She'd be eighty-five. And that's a long time to live with a secret like that."

"Your brother had to live with it, too," Fiddleford said. "It's not the same but it can't be easy to be mourned by people who couldn't care less when you were alive."

Something strange caught Ford's attention then. "My father. Is he…crying?"

"Too little, too late," Fiddleford said. "He had ten years to make it up to Stan and he never did. What good does that do?"

Ford shook his head, unsure what he was thinking or feeling. "Take me somewhere else."

Fiddleford nodded.

Fiddleford, looking much the same as he had when talking to Stanley, was standing in front of a house, his hat in his free hand, knocking. He looked nervous.

"This won't end well, will it?" Ford asked.

"Do any of them?" Fiddleford asked rhetorically. "What's the point in showing you any happy memories? The point is to get you to make different choices, not show you happy fun times."

A man answered the door after about the tenth knock or so. He had dark hair and his eyes were covered by the hat he wore. He seemed tired. "What do you want now?"

Ford started he realized who this was, who this had to be. "Is that…is that _Tate_?"

"Yessir," Fiddleford said, closing his eyes. "He's ashamed of me, you see. Can't say that I blame him."

"But…he loves you," Ford said, unable to believe it.

"I'm sure he does," Fiddleford agreed. "But love's not always enough and it's been hard on him, having the town kook for a father."

"But, you're not-"

"I _am_ , though. Or at least I was. Things have been getting better for me lately but for a long time they weren't. I couldn't even tell you from your twin and if I couldn't after our history then what hope did I really have?"

"I just wanted to know if maybe you wanted to play ball or something," the other Fiddleford said hopefully. He took a baseball out of his hat.

Tate sighed. "Dad-"

"I know, I know. You don't like it when I bother you at work. I scare off the customers. I been listening! But you're at home now. You don't look like you're doing nothing important. So why not? It's been awhile since I seen you."

"The last time I saw you, you were chased out of the kitchens of a restaurant after you stole all their soup," Tate pointed out. "And I just happened to be in there with Monica who I really liked and who had finally agreed to go out with me. She saw the whole thing and won't even talk to me."

Fiddleford's shoulders drooped. "Oh, Tate. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry."

Tate sighed. "I know, Dad. You're always sorry. And it never changes anything, does it?"

Wordlessly, Fiddleford held up the ball.

Another sigh. "Look, Dad, I get that you're trying to figure out how to spend time together and all but I'm a thirty-year-old man. Men my age have sons of their own to play ball with."

"You don't."

Tate smiled tightly. "I'm well aware of that. But I think that the time for playing catch has long-since passed."

"I never got to play with you," Fiddleford said, letting the ball fall to the ground.

"You _did_ , though," Tate disagreed. "You did. You and me and sometimes…but that was a long time ago. And it's not my fault that you can't remember it."

"It's not my fault either!" Fiddleford protested. "I want to remember you, Tate. I want to remember what it was like to be a good father. Back before it was too late."

Tate quite pointedly didn't tell Fiddleford he was a good father or that it wasn't too late and the words he didn't say broke Ford's heart. Instead he said, "And are you so sure of that?"

"Sure of what?"

"That it isn't your fault you don't remember," Tate clarified.

Fiddleford frowned. "Well, I suppose that I can't be absolutely sure of nothing, can I? Seeing as how I can't remember. But how could it be my fault?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Tate said. "That's never been the kind of thing I went in for. But that is exactly the kind of weird thing I'd expect you to know how to do. I guess it doesn't matter. I guess I'd rather think that my father had some horrible mysterious disease or brain injury no one can find or had some sort of an accident instead of thinking he'd do it to himself."

Fiddleford's face crumpled. "Tate-"

"I'm sorry," Tate said. "Some other time. I'm busy."

With that, he closed the door.

Ford stood there, shaking with rage. "How could he?"

"Now, don't you go blaming Tate none. He's a good boy and you don't know what he's been through."

"You may not remember what happened, or at least that you, but he does! He knows how much you love him. He was so glad to see you!"

"And that time has passed. And he's not wrong in thinking I did it to myself though I don't know how he figured that one," Fiddleford said. "Maybe I didn't hide it as well as I meant to. And, well, people can be cruel. You know that. They were cruel to me after my mind went and they were cruel to my son by association. I don't blame him for any of it."

"I can."

"I don't want you to," Fiddleford said sharply. "If you change this it will be a moot point anyway."

Ford took a deep breath, feeling suddenly exhausted. "How much more? How many more ways do I have to see how badly the future goes for everyone I care about?"

"Not much more," Fiddleford assured him.

He watched as Stan finally got the portal up again. He watched as Mabel and Dipper and some young man he didn't know nearly shut the portal down. He watched as the kids flung accusations at Stan and he tried to explain, without really explaining anything. He watched as Stan begged Mabel to trust him and she did. He watched himself walk out of the portal looking so much older (though not nearly as old as Stan) and punching his smiling clearly-expecting-a-hug brother right in the face. From the little Ford knew of the situation, Stan probably deserved that for risking the world. But it was hard to see the hopeful, expectant look on Stan's face fade away to be replaced by something defensive and almost hostile. He watched them explain what had happened to the children and Ford gave his brother permission to stay as long as the children did.

"I don't reckon you'll want to see the apocalypse," Fiddleford said. "Those were dark times. We made it through and I think you can get the picture of what that was about without having to see it."

"I…thank you," Stanford said. "So are we done then?"

"Not quite."

The older Stanford was sitting on the porch alone when Stanley came out.

"Listen Ford, we've got to talk," Stan said seriously.

Stanford glanced up at him. "If you'd like."

Stan swallowed hard and sat down beside him. "Now, look, I know that this isn't a conversation that either of us particularly wants to have but it's an important one so I figure it's best to just have out with it."

Stanford let out a breath. "Okay."

"I'm just going to ask you straight-up. I'm tired of guessing and obfuscating and all that fun stuff. Do you even want to try and fix our relationship?"

"What?" Stanford asked.

"Do you even want to fix our relationship?" Stan repeated. "Don't think you need to try and spare my feelings or anything. I'm already thinking the worst. From my perspective, I got kicked out when I was seventeen for something that I still don't know if you accept was an accident but that you seem to still not be completely over. I hear nothing from you for ten years. You call me for my help, I kind of fuck that up, a whole thirty years of nothing. Then I bring you back and, admittedly, there's some complications there. But you barely even speak to me, Ford. Summer's almost over."

"Me?" Stanford laughed but he didn't sound happy. "What about you? What about telling the kids that I'm a dangerous know-it-all? What about getting all bent out of shape because I noticed the lightbulb was burned out and created a better one than you could buy that you'd never have to replace? I was trying to _help_ you, Stan, not upstage you! What about 'if I die, make sure I get a bigger tombstone than Ford'? You already presumably have a tombstone, Stanley, and you'll likely get another one one day."

"That's not…" Stan trailed off.

"You seem to resent everything about me and my presence when you're the one who dragged me back here in the first place!"

"Wait, hold on, _dragged_?" Stan asked, narrowing his eyes. "I haven't heard anything about how you wanted to stay."

"Oh, you know what I mean," Stanford said impatiently. "You brought me back and now you act like you don't even want me here."

"Yeah, well, I was looking for a bit of a warmer reception than I got," Stan said, absently rubbing the spot Stanford had once punched him.

"So that's it? I'm only good if I'm acting like you want me to?" Stanford demanded.

"You've got to admit, Ford, that it's not unreasonable to want people around more if they don't punch you in the face," Stan said. "And you punched me in the face and then yelled at me because I _might_ have brought about the apocalypse."

"The end of the world is no laughing matter, Stanley," Stanford said sternly.

"I never said it was. But set all that aside. Maybe I'm not always…you know…but if you told me that you wanted to try and fix things then you have to know I'd jump at the chance. I might complain a little cause it's what I do but I do want that. But I'm tired of pushing and pushing when that's not what you want. But I've wanted this for forty years now and it's not so easy to give up, either. So I'm asking you, Stanford, what is it that you want from me?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing," Stan repeated, his tone impassive.

"I'm sorry if this is going to hurt you, I know it's not what you want to hear, and I can't guarantee that nothing is going to happen to change my mind one of these days," Stanford said. "But if you ask me right now what I want then the answer is nothing. It's not even anger, really, although I suppose there's still some of that. I just…don't particularly want to see you. We're managing to cohabitate right now and I'm not so selfish that I'm going to demand you vacate the town. It's just that I'm not interested in trying to fix anything."

Still no reaction. Maybe Stan had expected that. "Okay. Well, I don't want to be a pest so just tell me if that changes and if you don't then I'll assume that it hasn't." He stood up and turned to go.

Stanford didn't stop him.

"How can he just say that?" Ford demanded. "How can he just tell him that he doesn't want him in his life like that?"

"He's being honest. I believe him when he said he didn't want to hurt Stan."

"No, he just said he couldn't care less," Ford countered. "How could he feel that way? How could _I_ feel that way, even after thirty years of whatever hell I've yet to face?"

"Do you really feel so different?" Fiddleford inquired. "It's been about eight years since you've last seen him, hasn't it? You only reached out to him when you were desperate and there was no one else. I may not remember everything but I certainly don't remember you even mentioning you was thinking about calling him."

"Well, yeah, but…" Ford trailed off as he realized that he really didn't have a plan for ever reconnecting with Stanley. He had thought about maybe trying when he saw Stan freezing on the snow earlier that night but that was only after being forced to see how terrible his life had become. He couldn't be blamed for not knowing what had happened to his brother, or for any of what had, but maybe he could be for not trying to find out. But just because he hadn't once seriously considered calling him since Stan had been banished didn't mean that he was expecting to never call him again. That he was expecting to never find him again. But maybe, not having a plan and just blithely assuming things would sort themselves out, was how one ended up in a situation like that in the first place.

"My God," he said. "Is this really how my story ends? Trusting the wrong people, losing the ones that matter, losing myself for thirty years? Not interacting with my family or this entire town enough for anyone except my mother to realize that Stan is masquerading as me? Being perfectly fine with just never reconnecting with my brother? Used and betrayed and ultimately helping to bring about the end of the world?"

He was shaking, he realized. There was a hand on his shoulder. Fiddleford's eyes were warm as he gazed into them.

"It doesn't have to be," Fiddleford said. "It's the end of one story, certainly. But even that's not the end. Even that has Dipper and Mabel and they really are great kids. Even that has the possibility for things to get better with you and Stan, all you have to do is ask for it. But you're right, that is reaching the end of the story and it's not a great one. It's not the one I would've chosen. But you have this chance that no one ever gets. You can fix all of it before it really starts to spiral. Some bad things already happened, mostly regarding your brother and Bill, but it doesn't have to stay like that. You can fix it. Help us, Stanford Pines, you're our only hope."

Despite himself, Ford found himself cracking a smile. "Star Wars, Fiddleford, really?"

Fiddleford grinned back unapologetically. "I am who I am."

The two of them stood there in companionable silence for a long moment.

Finally, Ford said, "I think that I'm ready to go back now."

Fiddleford nodded. "I reckon you are. Just know that, if you're not able to fix everything, it's okay. Even if bad things happen, even if they happen to me, you can't blame yourself for everything."

"I won't have to blame myself," Ford said firmly. "It's going to be _fine_."

"I always did believe you when you looked at me like that," Fiddleford said, almost to himself. "Even when I knew I shouldn't."

"I won't let you down," Ford said. "Not this time. I'm ready. Send me back."

Fiddleford looked at him, impossibly fond, and nodded. "As you wish."


	5. Chapter 5

Ford woke up in his own bed which was far more proof than he actually needed that last night had actually happened and not just been some very intense too-real dream. When was the last time he had actually gone to bed and not passed out while working?

He looked at a clock. It was early.

He had so much he wanted to do and no idea where to start.

But it was early. He may very well be the first one up. So maybe start there.

He quickly dressed and headed downstairs. He hadn't seen Tate last night but he knew that he must be here. Still, there was no sign of his presence or of his father's.

Ford would not call himself a competent cook by any stretch of the imagination (if nothing else, he tended to get distracted and forget to add an ingredient or keep his eye on the timer) but he was fully capable of following instructions. And this was important so he was going to make sure he got it right.

He didn't trust himself to make anything complicated but surely pancakes were well within his skill level. And they even had chocolate chips. He just had to stick those in when the pancakes were cooking, right?

The first one he made as a test turned out a little burnt. The second one was less burnt than that. By the third one, he had gotten the hang of this making pancakes thing.

He had just about finished making pancakes (thirty was probably too many for three people but he was sure leftovers would be fine) when Tate ran into the room, still in his pajamas.

"Pancakes!" Tate said enthusiastically. "Pancakes! Pancakes! Pancakes!"

Ford chuckled. "I see somebody's excited."

"It's Christmas," Tate explained. "Usually we open presents first but I can wait. I've been waiting for two whole hours in my room."

"Where's your father?" Ford asked. "I think he mentioned something about how he usually makes a gingerbread house with you in the morning."

Tate nodded. "Usually I get bored waiting and wake him up and we do that while we wait for everyone else to be up. This year I decided to let him sleep."

"Well that's very nice of you," Ford said. "Very grown-up, too."

Tate beamed. "This year I have an Odyssey so I played that until I smelled pancakes."

"And what would you have done if I hadn't made breakfast?" Ford asked. "How long were you willing to wait to get your presents?"

"Probably not very much longer," Tate said. "The hardest feeling in the whole world is to wait to open Christmas presents! I couldn't sleep last night. I kept getting up and going to the stairs and looking to see if there were presents yet. And it took a long time until there were. And then there _were_ presents and I just wanted to open them but it was only one in the morning so I couldn't."

"Did you, uh, get _any_ sleep last night?" Ford asked. With not being able to sleep, getting up to check on presents, and being awake for at least two hours it certainly didn't sound like it. And yet he looked like he was perfectly well-rested. Oh, to be young. Or maybe it was just Christmas. He wouldn't know.

"Sleep is for the weak," Tate said seriously, pouring far too much syrup on his pancakes.

Ford laughed. What a bizarre thing to say. But he'd need to stay strong himself this very day and not sleep until he was able to literally insert a metal plate into his own head. Fortunately, he did have some titanium that he could use. He had an amulet that let him use telekinesis. He had the knowledge he survived doing this once and he really could not ask this of Fiddleford and especially not when his son was here. But those were thoughts for later. He wasn't going to ruin their Christmas with this and he should be safe enough for just another few hours. Bill only ever came to him in dreams or when he was alone anyway.

Tate looked down suddenly. "Hey, Uncle Ford?"

"Yes?" Ford asked.

"How is my dad doing?"

Ford frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I just…this is the first Christmas without Mom. And I go to school in California so I'm there most of the time. I don't want him to get lonely."

Ford cleared his throat uncomfortably. This really wasn't his place to say. But he remembered an awkward conversation at dinner that he hadn't been there for and maybe if he said this now that wouldn't have to happen or at least it could be somewhat truncated.

"I know that your father misses you very much when you aren't there," Ford said. "I know that he loves you very much. And he still cares about your mother and she still cares about him. They were together for a long time. But they had to do what was best for them and for your mother it's being in California and for your father it's being here."

Was that even true anymore? He had seen what became of Fiddleford staying in Gravity Falls. Honestly, that image would probably haunt him more than any other. Even seeing Stan alone in the snow literally tonight hadn't been as bad because he knew that eventually Stan would end up landing on his feet. Eventually, Stan would become a business owner, in fact, and live here. Well, hopefully not under the same circumstances but comparing him to Fiddleford in thirty years and it was clear whose life had completely fallen apart and how much of that was Ford's own fault.

"I know that," Tate said, twirling his fork in his hands. "I know that they don't love each other anymore and it doesn't mean they love me any less and none of it is my fault. But Mom has a boyfriend now."

"And you…don't like him?" Ford guessed. "Or you're not comfortable with your mother dating?"

"It's not that," Tate said. "Bruce is really nice. But Mom has someone now and Dad doesn't."

"He has me."

"I know," Tate said. "But it's not the same."

No, it wasn't quite, was it? It was as close as they could get but they couldn't get married and maybe have more kids. They could adopt, maybe. Well, one of them could adopt. Maybe. Could single fathers adopt a child? He really hadn't done any research into this. He wasn't sure if he even wanted to. Their research was very sensitive and very dangerous. And even if they could, it would leave the other one completely without any legal right to the child in case something went wrong. Such as, say, one of them being trapped in a portal for literal decades or one of them slowly destroying his own sanity. And then were would that leave them? Stan raising a child? Stan trying to pretend to be a father and not an uncle? That would go over well.

But all of that was beside the point.

It wasn't the same. Oh, to live in the magical world of 2012 where he could tell Tate that his father wasn't alone.

"These things take time," he said instead. "And your father seems happy to me. I'm sure that if he wants to date a woman than he will. Until then, he might be happy not doing that. It's important not to try and force him into doing something he wouldn't like or isn't ready for because you think he needs it to be happy."

"Oh, I wouldn't!" Tate assured him. "Just…are you _sure_ he's happy?"

"He was attacking me with banjo Christmas music yesterday," Ford said flatly.

Tate giggled. "Attacking you?"

Ford nodded. "Yes, attacking me."

"How do you attack someone with Christmas music?"

Before Ford could answer, the air was filled with the sounds of "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" on the banjo and why did he even know what song it was? Fiddleford really did take the whole Christmas thing a little too far sometimes.

"Like that," Ford said, nodding at Fiddleford who had just come into the room.

"Like what?" Fiddleford asked.

"I can't decide if it's scarier if he heard us talking and decided to demonstrate or if he just felt like attacking me with Christmas music again," Ford said.

Fiddleford briefly paused to swat Ford on the arm. "Oh, you hush now." He looked at the pancakes. "Tate, I knew you were getting bigger but I didn't know that you knew how to cook breakfast! I wish you would have woken me up so I could help you. I'm not sure how I feel about you using the stove by yourself. I suppose you could have asked Stanford but he's not always the best at keeping at things like safety precautions."

"Hey!"

Tate giggled. "I didn't make the pancakes!"

Fiddleford looked confused. "Then who did? Is this another Gravity Falls anomaly? Are the gnomes trying to pacify us again so you'll stop kidnapping them?"

"I don't kidnap them," Ford protested. "And ask them how they get a new queen."

"Word choice really isn't the issue here, Ford."

Ford rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, you know I made breakfast."

"You are not capable of making breakfast."

"And you think your son is?" Ford asked, crossing his arms.

"I mean, if I had to choose between one of you as the more likely culprit…"

"Oh, just sit down," Ford said.

Fiddleford grinned and did so, setting his banjo on the empty chair across from him. He took a bite. "These are actually pretty good! Now I know you didn't make them."

After breakfast, they moved over to the giant Christmas Tree Fiddleford had insisted on putting up. There was a small pile of presents underneath it that had not been there last night.

"I want to open the Santa one first," Tate declared. "Help me find it!"

Ford and Fiddleford obligingly helped him look until they found a lumpy-shaped present that said 'To Tate From Santa' on it.

Tate eagerly took the gift and examined the card. "Hey, Dad?"

"Yes, Tate?"

"Have you ever noticed that Santa's writing looks a lot like yours only squiggly?"

Ford quickly turned his laugh into a cough and Fiddleford gave him a look.

"Is that so?" Fiddleford asked. "How strange. I wouldn't be surprised if next year the card isn't handwritten."

"Really?" Tate asked, not seemingly aware of this big 'Santa isn't real' clue he had just uncovered. Ah, well. He was young. "How come?"

"I really couldn't say," Fiddleford said. "Not being Santa and all."

Tate nodded, accepting that. He opened the gift and found a mitt and baseball. "Cool! I wanted one of these!"

Ford swallowed hard, remembering an older Fiddleford's failed attempt to play with a grown Tate. "You two should play today."

Fiddleford stared at him. "It is literally the middle of winter."

"Well, technically it's only been winter for three days," Ford said.

"True though that may be, it does not undercut the larger point about we can't play catch in December," Fiddleford said. "We live in Oregon. There is snow on the ground. And we certainly can't play in the house."

"I'm just saying, you could find a way if you really wanted to," Ford said.

"Yeah, can we, Dad?" Tate asked excitedly.

"We'll talk about it later."

After a few more presents, Tate discovered one present for his father and two for Ford.

"What's this?" Ford asked.

"I guess we both got a present from Santa and I got one for you," Fiddleford said.

Guilt flooded him. "I didn't get you a present."

"We have talked about this," Fiddleford reminded him.

"Yes but now I know that you got me tw-one. One present. It's different."

"You don't actually celebrate Christmas. I didn't really expect one from you. And let me say again that I did know. It makes sense you wouldn't give me one."

"Actually, as I don't celebrate Christmas, I feel that it makes more sense for me to give a gift than to get one," Ford argued.

"Although I don't seem to remember getting any Hanukkah presents from you, either," Fiddleford said.

"You know I'm not really into religion. Or holidays. Or…a lot of things, actually," Ford said. "I hadn't quite realized how much."

"Well you can make it up to me later if you want," Fiddleford said, shrugging.

"When Mom and Bruce say stuff like that they kiss," Tate informed them.

Fiddleford looked awkward. "Thank you for sharing that, Tate."

Ford opened the present from Santa first. "Another trench coat!"

"I guess Santa noticed how much you like your other one and that you wear it literally everywhere," Fiddleford said.

Ford was, in fact, wearing it right now.

"He probably thought you might need a new one or at least the option to choose between them," Fiddleford said.

Ford smiled. "Well I'm very grateful to Santa."

Tate made a face. "Ew. Clothes."

"You don't like clothes?" Ford asked.

"Not as a present. Clothes are not presents," Tate informed them. "Toys and sometimes interesting books are presents. Clothes are just…ew."

"Well I'm glad that I got this as a present and not you, then," Ford replied.

"What's in the other one?" Tate asked. "That doesn't look like more clothes."

"Why don't we let your father go first?" Ford suggested.

"He can wait."

"Tate!" Fiddleford said but he was laughing. "I mean, he's right, I can wait, but I love how he just decided that for me."

"If you're sure," Ford said before taking the wrapping paper off of his second present. "A journal?" It looked just like his other ones except it was lacking his signature handprint. But he supposed it wasn't as though Fiddleford had any way of secretly obtaining that.

"I noticed that your second one was just about full up," Fiddleford said. "I wanted you to have another one on hand for when you need it."

Ford smiled at him. "These are such thoughtful presents. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Fiddleford said, smiling back. "Though, remember, I only got you the one."

"Ah, right. How could I forget?"

He really was terrible at Christmas.

Once presents were done, they had cleaned up breakfast while Tate ran off to play with his new toys. After that, Ford sat in the armchair and considered the phone for a long time. He had a few calls he needed to make, he knew that, but he didn't quite know what to say.

It was Christmas which, if he or any of the people he was looking to talk to actually celebrated it, might make things easier because it was expected to contact one's family on holidays.

There was so much going on, so much to worry about, and his mother and brother were technically doing fine. They didn't really _need_ to hear from him the way Stan did or to have him figure out a way to deal with the Bill situation like Fiddleford did.

But he knew for a fact that they both wanted to hear from him and it was just so easy to let these things go. He had already done that once, after all, and he was trying to be better. If not today then when? He couldn't do most of what he felt was more important right now anyway so why not just do this?

His mother answered on the first ring. "Stanley?"

He swallowed hard. "Not quite."

"Oh, Ford, honey! I am so glad that you called!" she exclaimed.

She sounded as though she meant it. Not as glad as she would have been if it were Stan but he understood. As far as everyone knew (as far as he himself had known only just yesterday), he was doing fine. As far as they all knew, Stan was in the wind and might not even be alive. He wasn't calling Shermie, he was rarely calling their mother, and yet he kept getting calls from Stan. And every time he answered or Fiddleford answered all they got was a dial tone. How could he possibly deal with…but that was a worry for later. Right now he was talking to his mother for the first time in…

"How long has it been?" he wondered aloud.

"Five months and eighteen days," she said too-quickly. "Not that I've been keeping track or anything, I'm just really good with dates and everything."

"I'm sorry," Ford said. "I haven't been meaning to neglect you."

"Oh, never you mind that!" she said. "I know that you've been busy up there with your research and everything."

"I have been busy," he agreed. "I'm always busy. But I'm not so busy that I can't take the time to give you a call. I spent the morning entertaining the child of a friend of mine. I can call you."

"I-I appreciate that," she said. "I just don't want you to feel like you have to call if you don't want to. I don't want to be a bother."

"You could _never_ ," he said, his voice coming out surprisingly fierce.

"I just know that you don't like remembering where you came from," she said. "And I know that I don't know that I blame you. Glass Shard Beach isn't the best place for a child and you had more problems than most."

Ford glanced down at the hand that wasn't holding the phone. Would he never be free of the curse of his six fingers? Tate had never said anything to him about it one way or another. He wasn't sure if that was manners, Fiddleford taking him aside to talk about it, or if he simply shared the same keen observational powers as his father.

"I may not be a fan of the entire state of New Jersey," Ford said. "But then, I can't think of anyone who is."

She laughed. "Certainly not me or your father."

"But the fact you happen to live there means that it can't be all bad, right? I can't make any promises about visiting or anything, I do have a lot going on, but I do want to keep in better contact with you," he said. "You have my phone number, Mom. I don't want you to ever be afraid to use it."

She didn't say anything for a long few seconds.

"Mom?"

"I-I'm fine. It's just good to hear that. It can be hard on a mother when her sons live so far away, is all," she said. "Not that I blame any of you for getting as far as you can from this place."

"Speaking of sons," Ford said slowly.

"Yes?"

"Have you heard from Stan lately?" Ford asked. "I've been thinking. It's been…god, it's been eight years, hasn't it? I haven't heard from my own brother in eight years. And I've recently been reminded of something and I really do want to talk to him."

"I think that that is an _excellent_ idea," his mother said, her voice surprisingly strong. "I think that may be the best idea I've heard in quite a while. I haven't heard from him recently. Seven weeks ago and two days, in fact. I was hoping he might call for Thanksgiving but I guess he was busy or something."

Ford tried to push down the surge of sudden guilt. Stan had been kicked out by their father, not saved by their mother, likely living literally in his car and he still managed to call more often than he did. Even if it weren't for the whole Bill end of days thing, Ford was starting to suspect he really had needed an intervention.

"I don't have his phone number," she continued. "I don't think he has a phone. He mentioned he travels a lot."

"How do you think he's doing, Mom? Really?"

She sighed. "Honestly, Ford? Not good. Oh, he tries to hide it but I don't see those funny commercials with him in them anymore and sometimes he goes a long time without calling and he's always so sorry and I always fear the worst. He doesn't want me to worry so it's hard trying to let him know that there's someone out there worrying about him without making him feel bad for making me worry. I don't ask about it because he doesn't want to talk about it but I know. A mother always knows."

All those years and she was the only one who knew enough about either of them to not let one twin neatly slide into the other's life.

"He's been calling me," he blurted out.

A surprised silence. "He has? But I thought you said you hadn't spoken to him. Or has he been leaving you messages?"

"I wish that were it," Ford said. "Technically, I'm not even positive that it's him but I'm pretty sure. I keep getting calls, here and back at school. The phone rings and I answer and then a few seconds later he hangs up."

"Oh, Stanley…"

"I know," Ford said. "It took me forever to piece it together but now I'm certain that I'm right. And I'm worried. And the next time he calls me, I'm going to try and keep him on the line. What happened was eight years ago and I want to change things."

There was silence for a moment. "I never thought he did it on purpose."

Ford still wasn't so sure. "I don't think I care if he did. He's more than paid for anything he's _ever_ done to me. It's enough. It's too much."

"I am so proud of you right now, Stanford."

Ford tried to focus on that, tried to focus on the fact he was going to fix this, instead of the fact that he literally had to be shown a future where everything went to hell and he seemed to have no interest in ever talking to Stan again before it even occurred to him to reach out. Nothing was stopping Stanley from actually saying something one of the dozens of times he called but if he wasn't going to then it was going to have to be Ford, wasn't it?

From there the conversation moved on to lighter subjects. He listened while his mother told him all about her friends and the synagogue and her phone psychic business. Apparently some psychic movie had recently come out which was great for business. Whenever Isaac called he always had a lot of ideas for what she should tell her customers and nothing was so creative as the mind of a child. Ford remembered when he and Stan used to help her with her calls even if, looking back, his suggestions were a bit too technical and Stan's too gross.

In return, he told her a little bit about Fiddleford and Tate and some of the non-Bill research he'd been doing. He didn't know if she believed him about unicorns and eye bats and summoning the undead (something that Fiddleford still hadn't quite forgiven him for) but she always did have an appreciation for a good story. He had gotten a little too used to all of the weirdness surrounding him in Gravity Falls which was why he had reached out to Bill in the first place. It was nice to be able to see it as suddenly fresh and new and fascinating again through her eyes. She asked him if he had a girlfriend and accepted it when he promised that he was happy. And Fiddleford did make him happy. As for the rest of it, Bill and Stan and Weirdmageddon, well…he was working on it. He knew about it and he had a plan and surely things couldn't turn out as bad as they had originally? That would have to be enough.

"I know you probably don't want to talk to your father right now," she said after they'd been talking for about an hour.

He let out an awkward laugh. "Well, ah, it's not that I don't want to talk to him per se, it's just-"

"You don't want to have another argument about money, I get it."

Honestly, Ford didn't understand why they kept fighting about money. Not only were both of his parents working and no longer needing to support anyone but themselves but the concept of the government and his school giving him money for a specific purpose and that he couldn't use it for anything else really shouldn't have been that hard of a concept to grasp. While it was true that neither of his parents had anything resembling an academic background, it was a _very_ basic concept. Here is money, use it for school. Here is money, use it to live and research. Just because it wasn't what they wanted to hear didn't mean it was as complicated as they always made it out to be.

"Well, no," he admitted.

"I understand," she said. "And I might not understand understand but I trust you."

She probably shouldn't. He might have destroyed the world once.

"Thank you."

"Your father went out anyway," she said.

"He did? Not much is open on Christmas," Ford said.

"I think he went to one of his sports bars," she said. "It doesn't matter."

"Wait, does that mean you're alone on Christmas?" Even he wasn't alone on Christmas. Not that he celebrated it. Not that she celebrated it either, actually. It was just really hard to escape this holiday, wasn't it? He blamed Fiddleford. Tate, too, that excitement could be contagious.

"I'm alright, I promise," she said, laughing lightly. "And he'll be back soon enough. Do you want me to tell him that you called?"

"Yes, that should be safe enough," he said. "Thanks."

"I want you to know that, whatever mistakes your father and I have made, we do love you, Ford, and we're always going to be there for you," she said seriously. "And these fights, these money issues, these too will pass. Never be afraid to call us because you think we're just going to yell at you. We won't. Not even your father. I promise."

"I know," Ford said. "And I am sorry. I am going to call more."

"Would it help if we had a schedule of sorts?" she asked. "Like 'I will call home on the first Saturday of the month' or something like that? It could also help me plan to be home to pick up. You wouldn't want to call long distance and have me not even be here."

"That sounds like a good idea," he said. "Except that instead of the first Saturday of the month, how about the first and third? Say nine o'clock in the morning."

He could hear the smile in her voice when she said, "I'd like that."

Once that conversation was done, Ford felt quite unexpectedly worn out. That was a good talk and he was glad he had had it. But he puttered around for the next twenty minutes trying to mentally prepare himself to call his brother. And this was the brother who he _didn't_ have a complicated history with.

Poor Shermie. He'd been the only one not involved with their family imploding and he still had to deal with the consequences of it.

"Merry Christmas," Shermie said cheerfully when he answered the phone.

"You don't celebrate Christmas," Ford said, confused.

"You can't tell me what to celebrate," Shermie said.

"I'm not, I'm just pointing out that I know that you don't celebrate Christmas."

"I am called upon to celebrate, at least a little, anything that will get me a day off of work," Shermie said. Someone said something in the background. "Well we can't all be nurses."

"It's Ford," Ford said, unsure whether his brother even knew it was him or not. He clearly wouldn't recognize his voice enough to know the difference in a few years at Stanley's funeral but had it gotten that bad already? When had he last called Shermie? It must have been after he spoke to his mother but that was nearly half a year ago. He hoped Shermie didn't keep as close track of that kind of stuff as she did.

"Oh, good, you know I was just about to call you," Shermie said. "It being Christmas and all."

"I don't celebrate Christmas, either," Ford pointed out.

"And yet here you are calling me," Shermie said.

"That has nothing to do with it being Christmas."

"Actually, I think you'll find that anything you do on Christmas has everything to do with it being Christmas," Shermie corrected. "I don't make the rules."

"I'm nearly positive that's not right," Ford said.

"Only nearly positive? That's a whole lot better than completely positive," Shermie said cheerfully. "I must be on to something."

"I don't even have the words for how wrong you are."

"I think that's another good sign of how strong my argument is."

"What even is your argument?" Ford asked.

Shermie paused. "That…I'm…right?"

"Is that a question?" Ford asked.

"Yes, yes it is."

Ford laughed. He had missed his brother. "Sorry it's been so hard to get ahold of me."

"Nah, I understand. You're probably off creating life over there, right?"

Ford blinked. "Sorry, what?"

"Yeah, I saw it in a movie. The mad scientist-"

"I'm not a mad scientist!" he interrupted.

"Well, sorry, bro, but I know nothing about any other kind of scientist so I'm working with what I've got," Shermie said, sounding completely unapologetic. "Anyway, the mad scientist decides to reanimate this dead guy. Or maybe this collection of parts of lots of dead guys he sewed together. It seems easier to just take one dead guy or maybe two if part of the first one wasn't usable but what do I know? My degree's in accounting. But then it all goes horribly wrong because the hunchback guy accidentally uses an abnormal brain because he thought it said Abby Normal and so the guy turns out to want to murder people or something. But don't worry, it all works out and he gets a girlfriend. Which…Rachel is now telling me he wanted in the book? So I guess the moral of the story is that some guys just really need girlfriends? Or, according to Rachel, some people pull massive amounts of crap when they don't get their way and we shouldn't indulge them."

"Well that sounds a little bit more like the book," Ford said. "If we're talking about what I think we're talking about." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "And, actually, can we talk about how ridiculous and a little offensive it is that having an 'abnormal' brain could be enough to turn someone into a monster but having a normal brain means he'd have been fine?"

"Well surely you don't think his actions were normal behaviors," Shermie said.

"It depends on the circumstances and on choices not really on the brain itself," Ford said. "And, hang on, are we talking about Young Frankenstein here? Did you just watch Young Frankenstein and decide that that must be my life?"

"Well if you would call and let me know what's actually happening then I wouldn't have to make it up," Shermie pointed out.

"I mean, you could have watched Close Encounters of the Third Kind, is all."

"Ford," Shermie said, sounding exasperatedly fond.

"So I, uh, haven't been creating life," Ford said. "I have been doing all sorts of interesting things, though, including actually finding the wreckage of some alien spacecraft."

"What?" Shermie asked, surprised. "I guess that explains why you picked that movie. Why haven't I heard anything about this?"

"Probably because I never call," Ford said, chagrined.

"No, I mean like on the news or something. Is there some sort of big government cover-up?"

"I don't think so," Ford said. "I haven't actually told people."

"Why not?" Shermie asked. "Isn't a research grant dependent on actual research findings? Do you not want to get more funding?"

"No, I do," Ford said. "But my grant is for studying anomalies and there's a lot more anomalies here than just dead aliens. I haven't even gotten to meet any. Well…probably. It's very disappointing. And if he's an alien then that's every more disappointing than if I'd never met any."

"Yeah, sure, sure, lots of anomalies here," Shermie said. "That's why you said you were moving there. But are these anomalies more interesting than proof of alien life?"

"Technically it's not proof of alien life because they're all dead," Ford said. "For all we know there was once alien life and now there isn't."

"It's still pretty huge."

"And actually that's not the most interesting part of this town," Ford said.

"I haven't heard of anything else mind-blowing coming from there," Shermie said. "Is _that_ a government cover-up?"

"I have no idea what the government is or is not covering up, Shermie," Ford said. "I'm not involved in any cover-ups, either."

"Then why aren't I hearing of anything? I mean, I know research takes a while but you've been out there for three years, right?"

"Three and a half," Ford confirmed. "I just, I don't know. All of it's a bit of a hard sell and I just want to make sure I get everything right. There's so much I need to know in order to feel like I fully understand this and the minute people do accept what I'm saying this town will be flooded with scientists and that's not what I want."

Shermie let out a whistle. "Yeah, I guess I can see your dilemma. Still, it sounds like quite a place. I should pop down for a visit sometime."

"Shermie, you live in California. You can't come down. It's going up."

"Ford, as I've told you and literally everyone else who expects me to use the words up and down only when I actually mean them, these are man-made concepts and a map isn't really the globe and I will continue to refer to directions how I see fit," Shermie declared.

"I kind of figured," Ford said. "But as to a visit…"

A sharp intake of breath. Usually Ford just ignored the hints that Shermie wanted to see him. "Yes?"

"It's ridiculous. I've been thinking about it and it's just completely absurd. You live just the next state over. It's a bit of a drive but not too bad. Fiddleford's son lives in California and he drives down to get him all the time."

"So you can say down but when I do it it's wrong?" Shermie couldn't resist asking.

"When I do it I'm being accurate," Ford explained. "You heading up here and him heading down there are two different directions that need different words. You live so close and I haven't seen you in years. I haven't see Rachel since the wedding and I think Isaac was three when I last saw him. Does he even know that he has uncles?"

"I've tried explaining it to him but Rachel only has sisters so it's a bit of an abstract concept, really," Shermie said. "But yes. Absolutely. I would love to come down there and see you, maybe bring Rachel and Isaac. Or you could come up and see me! Fiddleford could stop by and see his son and she and Rachel could meet. She has theories, you know."

"Okay, now you're doing that on purpose," Ford accused.

"I have no idea what you mean," Shermie lied.

"And what kind of theories are we talking about?"

" _Theories_ theories," Shermie said. "If you want to hear more then come see us! Or let us come see you! Frankly at this point I don't even care which."

"I would have thought of the two of you, you'd be the one with the theories," Ford said.

"Ah, but you don't know Rachel and we need to correct that. Besides, what makes you think I don't also have theories?"

"It's just that you led with her having the theories," Ford said.

"That's because her theories are crazy and mine are absolutely true and I would stake my life on it."

"I might not want to do that if I were you," Ford said. "You had a theory about me being Young Frankenstein."

"And I stand by that," Shermie said. "Listen, I'm glad you called. And I don't know if you really mean it about visiting but I'm going to make this happen either way. I'm sick of feeling like an only child, you know?"

It felt like more of a condemnation than he was sure Shermie had meant. "Yeah, I know. It's been pointed out to me that I've been letting a lot of things fall by the wayside and maybe I shouldn't. I've been trying to fix that. I, uh, I'm going to try and get back in touch with Stan, too."

There was a pause. "As glad as I am to hear that you finally want to work things out, I wouldn't get your hopes up. I've been trying to get in touch with Stan since the moment I heard he was kicked out and, well, it's not been easy. Maybe if I had the money to hire an investigator or something but…"

"I think I know a way."

"Care to share?"

"I think he's been calling me and then hanging up," Ford said. "So I can't really. But if it's him, I intend to try and make him talk to me next time he calls."

"It could be, could be," Shermie agreed. "But if it's not?"

"Then…" Ford took a deep breath. "Then I guess I'm just going to have to commit fraud and use some of my grant money to track him down. Eight years is a long time to barely even know someone's alive."

"It is," Shermie agreed. After a beat, he added, "I wouldn't go mentioning that to Dad, though. If he finds out you're willing to use grant money on a little thing like making sure our brother is alive and not on, I don't know, getting them a vacation house he might never forgive you."

"The worst part is, I think you might be right," Ford said.

They talked for another half an hour before Isaac came in and insisted on talking to him. He was happy and excited and reminded him a lot of Tate. Maybe he had more experience with children than he thought. Rachel briefly came to the phone and wished him well but he didn't really know her so there wasn't a lot to say. Shermie didn't let him go without informing him that they were coming to Gravity Falls when Isaac was on spring break (not even asking, just informing. Shermie was serious about not giving Ford a chance to change his mind about talking to his family, wasn't he?). He hung up the phone and just sat there smiling for a few minutes. It was really good to hear from him. He didn't want to let that go again.

Fiddleford wandered it at one point to start dinner.

"Fiddleford, I have a question for you," Ford announced, moving over to the kitchen to watch him cook but to not really contribute in any significant way.

"It must be quite the doozy if you're warning me instead of just asking."

"Maybe I just want to make sure you're listening so I don't have to repeat myself."

"That's another valid possibility," Fiddleford agreed, nodding. "Which one is it?"

"Well, actually, you were right. It is a big one. Or, I guess, I have a smaller question that leads into the bigger one. No, actually, wait, that bigger one isn't so much a question as a statement and I just…do you think Tate is going to stay out of the way while we talk about this?"

Fiddleford paused what he was doing and looked carefully at him. "I think so, it is Christmas and he just got a lot of new things. But what's all this about? I'm starting to worry."

"You should," Ford said grimly. "Or, rather, I think you already are and you were right to."

Fiddleford stared at him. "Stanford."

"Sorry. There's just no easy way to say this."

"That is becoming abundantly clear," Fiddleford said.

"Do you think you can have an incredibly serious and slightly disturbing discussion while still cooking dinner?" Ford asked. "I mean, I don't want to ruin this for you just because I'm about to drop a bombshell on you."

"I…think so," Fiddleford said slowly. "Something disturbing might put me off my appetite but I'm not eating right now, just cooking."

"Fiddleford, you were right about everything."

Fiddleford took a moment to process that. "As gratifying as that is to hear, it stinks of overgeneralization. What, specifically, was I right about everything about?"

Ford took a deep breath. No going back. "Bill."

Fiddleford immediately set what was in his hands down on the counter and made his way over to Ford. He sat in the chair across from him and reached for his hand. Evidently he couldn't have this discussion while making dinner. But he couldn't very well just walk away now. "What happened? Did he hurt you? He must have hurt you or you wouldn't have figured it out."

"The how doesn't matter," Ford began.

"The hell it doesn't!"

Ford winced. "Fiddleford, please. Don't ask me what happened. It's just…it's not…"

Fiddleford nodded and squeezed his hand. "Okay, I'm sorry. Okay. You don't have to tell me. But do you know anything else? What does he want?"

"He wants us to build a portal for him," Ford said. "You already know that part. But he lied about what it's for. He wants to create a rift in the universe. He wants to let him and his friends into this dimension, give themselves physical forms, and destroy the world. It's-it's meant to be a _party_."

Fiddleford was staring at him in abject horror. "My God. That's worse than I thought. I thought he just wanted to do something small-scale, maybe a few murders. The whole world? I can't believe it."

"We can't build that portal," Ford said.

"No, I agree," Fiddleford said. "But, Stanford, he can possess you. You said that you made a deal that will last until the end of time. He gives you information, which he has, in exchange for getting to possess you. Can you stop that?"

"I think so," Ford said slowly. "I have reason to believe it will work but it's not going to be pleasant. It's a little desperate, even, but I don't have much of a choice. And I've been looking into some of the old research I have and I think I found something that will keep the house safe from Bill. I mean, it's supposed to protect it from all malevolent entities and I don't know if he would count but it's worth a try. The only catch is, well, we're going to need some unicorn hair."

Fiddleford swore. "Unicorns? Are you sure?"

"I know," Ford said grimly. "We'll just…have to find a way. We can't have him getting in here."

"Well what about you?" Fiddleford asked. "Don't try and distract me from whatever insanely risky thing you're planning."

"I'm not," Ford assured him. "It's just…I need to put a titanium plate in my head. Not a very big one! Just a small one to block out his influence."

"Ford. That's not a viable plan."

"It might not be ideal-"

"I'll say!"

"But it's the only one we've got," Ford said firmly. "And it has to be tonight, before Bill has a chance to strike. I know the timing is terrible but we've just got to make the best of it."

"Ford, I don't know anything about brain surgery."

"I can do it," Ford assured him. He had done it before, after all, in far more desperate straits and with Bill actively gunning for him.

"You can't perform brain surgery on yourself. You'd be better off letting me do it," Fiddleford said. He might be right. Surely Fiddleford could do a better job than a magical amulet and no anesthetic.

"Damn, I wasn't going to tell you," Ford said, sighing.

"That is most definitely the kind of thing you need to tell me!"

"Which is, I guess, why I ended up doing so," Ford relied. "I can't wait until he stabs me or throw me down the stairs or makes me kill you. Or Tate! You know Tate's here. This isn't the best solution but we have to move fast."

Face pale, Fiddleford shakily nodded. "So I guess I know what we're doing after Tate goes to bed tonight."

"Thank you," Ford said, managing a thin smile.

"I'm going to hack his head open and he says 'thank you'," Fiddleford muttered. "This is what your life has become, Fiddleford."

"We'll get through this," Ford said. "I don't know how to stop Bill but if we can protect ourselves and this place then we should be alright. We haven't gotten too far with him and I'm the only one who made a deal. Once I cancel that out…well maybe he'll just decide we're too much trouble and move on."

"Won't he just find someone else to end the world?" Fiddleford asked. "As happy as I am not to be party to the world's destruction, I don't want it to happen at all if I can help it."

"I'm really not sure if there's anything else that we can do," Ford said apologetically. "But I'm the only one who summoned him and from how he was talking it's been awhile since he's been even a little bit in this dimension. And I didn't summon him here but rather into my mindscape. He might have no other outlet as long as no one else is fool enough to summon him."

"Which they will because that's how these stories always go," Fiddleford said. "But you're right. We can't worry about that now. We need to focus on saving us first. I'm sorry."

"For what?" Ford asked. "I'm the one who should be sorry. I _am_ sorry. I didn't listen to you when you tried to warn me and I summoned him here in the first place. We wouldn't need to worry about this at all if it weren't for me."

"You didn't know."

"I'm the idiot who ignored the 'do not summon at all costs' warning," Ford said. "I mean, really, did I think it was there just to scare people? I mean, I tried not to think about it but I saw it."

"I'm sorry that someone that you cared about, someone that you believed to be a friend, used and betrayed you," Fiddleford said. "You're a good person, Stanford Pines, and you don't deserve that."

Ford laughed ruefully. "I'm not so sure about that."

"What? Ford, don't be ridiculous. You couldn't have seen this coming!"

"I was warned not to summon him."

"Yeah, they weren't very specific about why," Fiddleford said. "Speaking of, we should destroy those instructions in that cave."

"Why kind of idiot falls for 'you're such a genius and I'm an altruistic muse here to inspire you' anyway? What a load of nonsense," Ford said bitterly.

"You're only saying that because you know it isn't true now," Fiddleford pointed out. "What do we know about other dimensions? For all we know, he stole that from real muses. It's not any more likely for creatures from other dimensions to be out to kill us than to want to help us. You couldn't have known. He hurt you. That doesn't make you the bad guy here."

"I should have seen through it," he insisted.

"You should have been perfect, is that it?" Fiddleford demanded.

"He needed to possess me! What kind of non-malevolent entity goes around possessing people?"

"Do not make me make the case for possession not being evil, Stanford," Fiddleford said. "It just might kill me. Look, it's a mistake. You know better. You never meant any harm and nothing's been done that can't be undone."

"But it could've is the problem," Ford said. "If I hadn't finally seen it, I could have helped bring about the end of the world."

"But you didn't! That's all that matters."

Ford shook his head in denial of his words. "It's not good enough. I almost…it doesn't matter if you don't _mean_ to do something terrible. When something gets bad enough, just the fact that you played your part is bad enough and what could possibly be worse than literally ending the world?"

"Hey, you don't get to blame yourself for what Bill did. You're not him," Fiddleford said firmly. "And we're going to stop this. You and me. I'm probably going to go assault a unicorn tomorrow. It's about to be a new decade, apparently we do these kinds of things now."

Despite himself, Ford let out a small laugh at that. "You're so understanding."

"I've lived with you," Fiddleford said. "Frankly, I've had to be."

"So. We have a plan then," Ford said.

"We have a plan," Fiddleford agreed. "And I'm going to keep reminding you that this isn't your fault and that you're just blaming the victim."

"I wasn't his victim," Ford insisted. "I could have been and I might be but it hasn't gotten that far."

Fiddleford shook his head. "Just because he didn't, what did you say, throw you down the stairs doesn't mean that you weren't his victim. He lied to you. He was using you. He said he was different but he was just like all the other assholes you've had to deal with."

"I'm…sure he said some things to you," Ford said hesitantly. "I know you alluded to it. I wasn't always paying attention to what he did with my body. Which, in hindsight, is rather terrifying."

Fiddleford waved if off. "Well if you want to know why I never liked him, other than the possession and the probably being a demon thing and the fact I didn't communicate directly with it outside of the possession thing, then that's why. He was kind of a jerk. But, really, it's small potatoes compared to all the rest of it and I have thicker skin than that."

"I'm sorry," Ford said. It was all he could think of to say.

Fiddleford smiled sadly at him. "I'm beginning to hate the sound of you apologizing."

"Me? You've apologized at least as much this conversation and, as little as you might want to blame me, you did literally nothing wrong. You couldn't have even spoken up more. I just didn't want to hear you."

"How about this then?" Fiddleford suggested. "We both stop apologizing and stop brooding away on all the ways we messed up and instead just try to fix this."

Ford nodded slowly. "I think I can agree to that."

"Good," Fiddleford said with a determined cheer. "Because the next apology I hear I'm throwing something at the person who says it."

"That's fine if it's me," Ford said. "Well, not fine, I'm not giving you permission to do that. But what if it's you?"

"I can throw something at myself," Fiddleford said. "I'm very talented that way."

"What if it's Tate?"

Fiddleford snorted. "A bit unlikely. But I can always throw something soft."

* * *

If Fiddleford thought there was anything odd about Ford diving for the phone every time it rang, he didn't say it.

At some point, Tate had reemerged and wanted to help with dinner so Fiddleford let him do everything that didn't involve heat or cutting.

Ford was trying to convince himself not to get a snack before dinner because, really, dinner was only a few minutes away and Fiddleford was going to make so much fun of him for not being able to wait when the phone rang yet again.

"Hello, this is Stanford Pines," he said, his heart racing.

No immediate answer. They could just be gathering their thoughts or something. But it could be-

"Stanley?" he asked hopefully.

No answer. But no dial tone either.

"Stanley, is that you? Please let that be you. I want to talk to you."

For a long moment, he thought he wasn't going to get a reply.

"Stanford?" Stanley asked hesitantly.

Ford had never been so glad to hear his voice before.

"Stanley."

"Yeah, we, uh, established that already," Stanley said.

"I haven't seen you in eight years," Ford said. He had been planning on talking to Stanley. Not planning for very long, granted, it had only been a few hours since he realized that this was something he should be doing. He had no idea what to say.

A derisive sound. "I hadn't gotten the impression you wanted to."

"I'm sorry."

"You're…sorry?"

"No matter what happened, you were seventeen. You didn't deserve to just be kicked out on the street like that. And I knew that. I was just so-so _angry_. So hurt."

"I didn't mean to ruin your stupid nerd project," Stan muttered.

"It doesn't matter," Ford said. "You're my twin brother, you know? And I didn't even know if you were alive."

"Of course I'm alive," Stan said, with what must be false bravado in his voice. He was in the middle of nowhere surrounded by snow and ice. "I'm doing fine. More than fine! Great, even!"

"I'm glad to hear that," Ford said. "I'm…not doing so fine."

"Why not? What happened? Mom told me you got your PhD and went out to some town to be a researcher of weird shit," Stan said, sounding concerned. He had no home, no job, no chance and he was worried about Ford. He used to find that kind of thing suffocating. Now it just made him want to punch something. It wasn't fair.

"Someone I trusted turned out to not be who I thought they were," Ford said. "Things are going to be a bit rough around here until I can sort this out."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Stan said. "Listen, I should g-"

"I miss you," Ford blurted out. He couldn't just let Stan hang up like that.

"W-what?" Stan sounded like he didn't think that he had heard that right.

"I miss you," Ford repeated. "It's been eight years. We're twenty-five now. Real live adults and everything."

"Y-yeah. I've missed you, too."

"Listen, this might be asking too much," Ford said. "But I've been talking with Mom and Shermie and they miss you, too."

"But not Dad," Stan said bitterly.

"Dad is currently barely speaking to me because he wants to take all my money," Ford said, rolling his eyes. "I couldn't give it to him even if I wanted to. He doesn't matter right now. The rest of us do."

Stan cleared his throat. "You said something might be asking too much? What is it? Do you want me to call them or something?"

"They would appreciate that, yes," he agreed. "Although that wasn't what I was going to say."

"Then what then?"

"I don't know what you're doing right now. You might be busy. You might have a job, a life, it might not be possible to just pack everything up and come to Gravity Falls, Oregon."

"But?" Stan asked, sounding as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"But if there is any way that you could come up here to see me, I would really appreciate it if you could," Ford said.

There was a long silence.

An irrational fear filled him. Surely Stan hadn't hung up? "Stanley?"

"I'm here," Stan said after a moment, his voice strangled. "Are you-are you sure?"

Ford smiled. "I'm sure. You'd like it here, I think. I know it's the first place I've ever felt like home."

"A bunch of weird stuff, huh? Not sure that's my kind of place."

"Well, we'll see," Ford said. "There's this one spot that reminds me so much of our childhood it's unreal. I want to show it to you. I have this friend, Fiddleford. I want you to meet him. And Shermie's going to come up and visit when the weather gets warmer. I need to convince him that I do real science work and not whatever he sees in movies."

"What are you saying?" Stan asked hesitantly. "Just how long do you want me to come stay with you for?"

"I don't know," Ford said honestly. "Eight years is a long time. There's a lot we need to catch up on. I feel like I don't even know you anymore and I used to know you better than anyone. You used to know _me_ better than anyone. How long do you think you'd want to stay?"

"I think I could be there by New Year's," Stan offered.

Ford's smile widened. "We could usher in new beginnings. Together. A brand new decade, brand new start. I like that."

"I-shit, I'm out of time," Stan said. "I have to go, I don't have another quarter on me. But I'll be there. Don't you worry."

"I won't," Ford said. "I'm looking forward to it."

He got no response but the dial tone but that was okay. It didn't surprise him that Stan didn't have very much money on him or that he was just going to drop everything and come running when he called (not that he had much _too_ drop). At least this time Stan would be getting the warm reception and family reunion he was expecting. At least this time there was no portal for one of them to fall through.

Despite his earlier success with the pancakes, Ford really was useless in the kitchen but he decided to help Fiddleford and Tate finish up dinner and then sat down next to them with no need to be summoned from the basement.

"Did you have a nice Christmas, Tate?" Ford asked him politely.

Tate nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! And I can't wait to watch the Christmas shows after dinner!"

"I'm glad you liked all your presents," Fiddleford said.

"Yeah. I just wish I could have gotten to play with the ball today," Tate said pointedly.

Fiddleford made a face. "I mean…it's just the middle of winter. Okay, fine, technically the start of winter or whatever. The point is that it's very cold right now and we'd probably lose the ball and get frostbite or something."

"I am not really seeing a problem here," Tate said.

"That's because you're young and thinking about things like frostbite is my responsibility," Fiddleford said.

"That's _boring_ ," Tate complained. "I don't want to be boring, I want to play catch."

"I agree with Tate," Ford said.

Fiddleford turned and gave him a look. "Stop being a bad influence."

"What about anything in my life makes you think I wouldn't be a bad influence?" Ford asked. "I mean, really."

"I…can't actually argue with that," Fiddleford said, laughing. "What does it say about me that I let you spend time alone with my child?"

"It says you're a good dad," Tate said. "Who should really just let me play baseball."

"Not happening," Fiddleford said.

Tate looked at Ford. "He says that now."

"I'll keep saying it!"

"Bruce would let me do it."

"I don't know who Bruce is but if he's a friend of your mother's, may I remind you they live in California where I don't think it's legally allowed to snow so nice try," Fiddleford said.

"I'm still here for another week," Tate pointed out.

Fiddleford sighed. "It's clearly going to be a very long week."

"When my brother who has probably been to prison comes, does that mean that I'm going to be less of a bad influence compared to him or even worse for bringing him into Tate's life?" Ford asked curiously.

Fiddleford considered the question. "I'd normally say the latter but if you're a bad influence because of who you bring into his life then I'd be a worse influence for bringing you in the first place. So the first one just out of sheer self-preservation."

Ford laughed. "You are really, really good at rationalizing."

"Well one of us has to be," Fiddleford said unapologetically. "It's either that or all blame ourselves for everything that's ever gone wrong in the universe."

"I'm really not that bad," Ford protested.

"You kind of are," Tate said.

Ford crossed his arms. "What do you even know about it?"

"Nothing," Tate admitted easily. "But I still want to go play outside."

"You can play outside," Fiddleford said. "Just not tonight since it's dark. And not with the baseball."

"That's what I want. I'm trying to get you to change your mind."

"I know," Fiddleford said. "But it's not happening."

Tate made a face. "Is it too late to change my mind?"

Ford laughed at that.

Hard times were coming. In a few hours he was going to have Fiddleford literally put a metal plate in his head. Tomorrow Fiddleford, and possibly him depending on how he was feeling, was going to face down the most frustrating creatures he had ever encountered. A few days after that and he was going to be face-to-face with Stanley for the first time since he had had his dreams of West Coast Tech shattered and watched his brother be thrown out on to the street. He wanted to fix this and he knew Stan was probably even more committed to that and yet this was still more than likely going to get ugly.

And Bill. And the portal. Who even knew what was going to happen there, how they were going to keep safe and prevent a Weirdmageddon from descending upon them?

Those were heavy questions.

He was going to need to find some answers.

He might even need to tell Fiddleford and Stan what he saw and who even knew how he'd find the strength to do that. It wasn't an easy thing to face.

But for now, whether he celebrated it or not, it was Christmas. For now he was surrounded by people he cared about and in the thoughts of a few others who couldn't be there with him.

For now, everything was okay.

For maybe just this moment, it was enough.

 _They_ were enough.


End file.
